


Settling Accounts

by latin_cat



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Book : L'Affaire Francis Blake | The Francis Blake Affair, Book: L'Onde Septimus | The Septimus Wave, Canon Related, Dark fic, Drug Addiction, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, bridging the gap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-01 05:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21402550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: Three months have passed since the climactic events in Southwark, but Professor Evangely and Lady Rowena are yet to give up the Great Work.Post-L'Onde Septimus, leading intoL'Affaire Francis Blake.N.B. The publication ofLe Cri du Molochmeans this fic is now AU. Though not by much.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 9





	1. Halifax

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blackpenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpenny/gifts).

It has been three months since the conclusion of events in Southwark. Summer has long given way to the damp fogs of autumn, and Professor Evangely has seen the immediate effect of this on his patients. There are certainly more of them, anyway. The surgery’s waiting room is near constantly filled with coughing and sniffing people, who for all the good a visit to the doctor will do them might have just as well stayed home, instead of contributing to the current epidemic by spreading their germs around further.

Yes, it has come to this; Professor Thomas Evangely – celebrated psychologist and neurologist, pioneer in the field of mental illness, distinguished Fellow of the Royal Society, formerly on the Board of Directors of the Institute of Psychology – masquerading as a National Health Service general practitioner at the Rosamund Bligh Memorial Clinic, amongst the shabby gentility of Halifax.

There is a rather faded framed photograph of the aforementioned lady hanging in Reception; a matronly woman in her sixties, the fox-fur and cloche hat she is wearing dating the picture to the 1920s. Neither Evangely nor any of his erstwhile colleagues have a clue as to who Rosamund Bligh was, nor why anyone should name a clinic in her memory. Neither have any of them been inspired to find out.

It was Lady Rowena’s idea that Evangely should come here. As she had quite rightly pointed out, a better class of establishment in a more metropolitan area would run the risk of his being recognised by one of the other doctors. To his staff and patients here, he is Dr Jeremy Gilbert; a former Harley Street specialist who has left his busy London practice and research post at Kings for a quieter outlook amidst concerns for his own health.

It is a story which everyone has swallowed without question; the medical professionals of Halifax are not well-connected enough to query it, nor are they near enough to the capital to bother checking. It is a necessary evil, alas, if he wishes to remain at liberty. Evangely consoles himself with the thought that Christ suffered in the Wilderness before his divinity was revealed, as Jonathan Septimus had been forced into exile before he could unleash his true genius upon the world. No great scientific advancement is without sacrifice.

Evangely had just never imagined that he would be the one making the sacrifices.

All is not lost, though. Whilst the professor waits patiently here, enduring his acutely stupid and chronically average patients, Rowena is discreetly busy using all her influence and charm elsewhere to win new backers. The loss of Bailey’s millions has been a blow, as has the freezing of Rowena’s investments portfolio, but there are plenty of interested parties, well beyond the reach of the British Government or Security Services, with the funds and ideals to match their own ambitions. As soon as they have secured the correct new partners, the Great Work will begin again.

Or almost as soon as; they still needed to discover the current whereabouts of Colonel Olrik. Until just over a month ago the original “Guinea Pig” had been securely tucked away at Bethlem Hospital in a near-catatonic state; a result of his last encounter with the alien influence that had seized control of the Telecephaloscope. Nothing would have been simpler than to abduct Olrik from the ward when Evangely was ready to begin his experiments again – and with the man’s conscious mind destroyed, this time he would have been a perfectly docile subject. Yet frustratingly the colonel’s personality had reasserted itself without warning, and the wretch had managed to escape the hospital and gone to ground, most likely to lick his wounds. It’s an irritating setback, but one which Evangely is certain will be overcome. They’d found Olrik before, and they will find him again; all they need do is wait.

It is six o’clock on a Friday evening, and the professor has just come to the end of another hellish shift. He is packing up his briefcase to return to the plain but respectable boarding house he calls home, anticipating a weekend’s peace and quiet alone with his research notes and books, when the buzzer on his intercom sounds. Suppressing a groan, Evangely flicks the switch down to answer.

‘Yes, Mrs Patch?’

‘Sorry to disturb you, Dr Gilbert.’ The secretary’s crisp tones come clearly over the speaker. ’But there’s a… _man_ here asking for you. I told him you were just leaving and to make an appointment for tomorrow, but he insists on seeing you.’

Evangely frowns, all at once uneasy. Mrs Patch, like medical secretaries everywhere, is a brilliant guard dog with an intense prejudice against the ill. She is fiercely devoted to “her” doctors, whom she views as superior beings to be protected from the time-wasting general public at all costs; a view which suits Evangely perfectly, as he is not overly fond of his patients either. Yet now he can detect a hint of uncertainty in her usually so forthright manner. Were this… _man_ simply a patient seeking care, she would have thrown him out on his ear, so there must be something suitably unusual about the request for her to bother him. The thought briefly flits across his mind that Blake and the Security Services might somehow have caught up with him, but he dismisses it as unlikely; the professor has taken every precaution, and their security measures are watertight. Still, if Mrs Patch is wary, he ought to proceed cautiously.

‘What does he say it’s about?’ he asks, feigning nonchalance. Whoever this fellow is, he will be able to hear what is said over Mrs Patch’s speaker.

‘He said to give you the message that Mrs Danby is no better, and can he speak to you to make further arrangements for her care? He is most emphatic about the last part.’

And immediately the trace of anxiety disappears as a thrill of excitement runs through the professor’s body. _Now_ he understands. "Mrs Danby" is the code that he and Rowena have agreed on to communicate, and to communicate only on the subject of the Great Work. For Rowena to have sent this messenger now must mean that there is news; good or bad is yet to be seen, but after months of stagnation Evangely is hungry for any developments.

‘It’s all right, Mrs Patch.’ Somehow he manages to keep his voice calm, even breezy. ‘Mrs Danby is a patient I’m attending on behalf of Dr Falconer at the hospital. Send the fellow in.’

‘Very well, Doctor.’ Mrs Patch still sounds reluctant, but she will nevertheless follow orders. _An obedient guard dog, at that,_ Evangely thinks as he switches off the intercom, and sits back down behind his desk. Folding his hands in front of him, he waits impatiently.

A minute or so later, there is a brisk knock at the office door.

‘Come in!’ he calls.

The door opens, and Evangely instantly understands why Mrs Patch was so unsettled by this visitor.

Into the room has just stepped one of the largest human beings Evangely has ever seen. If this creature is indeed human; Evangely is put in mind of nothing less than a blond gorilla. Caucasian, in his late thirties, maybe early forties; the numerous bumps on his face and flattened nose make it difficult to judge, and in these Evangely recognises the tell-tale features of a former boxer. All in all he seems to be a classic thug; though admittedly a well-trained and polite thug. The walking mountain of muscle is dressed in a modest but well-cut suit, and is holding his hat in his hands with a respectful air. What’s more, he automatically turns to close the office door behind him, prompting the bemused thought from the professor that someone must have gone to great trouble over the years to domesticate this brute. He cannot conceive that creatures like this are anything but naturally feral.

The man turns back to Evangely, blue eyes wide with sincerity and his battered face schooled into an expression of worried hopefulness.

‘Thanks for seeing me, doctor,’ he says, his words practically tripping over themselves with gratitude. ‘Mrs Danby really isn’t good.’

The man’s American accent is unexpected, and Evangely wonders at it for a moment until he remembers that Rowena’s current protector is an American magnate of some sort. American businessmen liked to employ these sort of roughs for their retinues, didn’t they? (_Only to be expected from a nation founded on insecurity_, the psychologist in Evangely scoffs.) As such, it stands to reason that Rowena will have dispatched one of his men with the message. Nor can the fellow be as dim as he looks, either, if he is making a decent effort to keep up the agreed pretence.

The professor gestures to the chair opposite him. ‘Sit down, please, Mister…?’

‘Arkwright.’ The gorilla readily provides the name, obviously false.

Evangely nods in appreciation. ‘Arkwright. Very good. Tell me what I can do for Mrs Danby.’

“Arkwright” moves to the indicated chair and sits as instructed. The moment he does so, his whole demeanour changes; the open gaze is gone, his misshapen features rearranging themselves into a shrewd expression. He lifts one meaty hand from his lap and points to the intercom on the desk.

‘Ain’t no chance of the old dragon listening in?’ he asks, surprisingly quietly.

Evangely snorts both dismissively and in amusement. ‘Mrs Patch has many flaws, but eavesdropping is not one of them. She reveres the sanctity of the consulting room.’

‘Uh-huh. Sure.’

The insolent tone makes the professor bridle, as does the implied suggestion of incompetence. He has fallen far, yes, but not so far as to tolerate the disrespect of this lackey!

‘I suggest you remember who you are talking to, “Mr Arkwright”,’ he snaps quietly. ‘And you’ll find my security arrangements are more than adequate.’

The rebuke hits home, and the thug looks suitably chastened as he hastily backpeddles. ‘Sorry, Prof, didn’t mean to offend. Just gotta be careful in my line of work, y’know?’

Evangely nods curtly, pleased by his conciliatory air. He has certainly put the man in his place.

‘Better.’ He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. ‘So? What news? I take it there’s been a development?’

A sly smile breaks out across Arkwright’s lumpy face.

‘Oh, it’s good news alright. Her Ladyship’s found a new sponsor for the project.’

Evangely concentrates on keeping outwardly calm as his heart leaps for joy. At last! No more hiding, no more pandering to dowdy matrons or snotty children. The Work could begin anew.

‘Who?’ he demands, but Arkwright shakes his head.

‘Can’t say; not here. But they want to take the operation State-side.’ Arkwright taps the side of his broken nose in what he probably thinks is a conspiratorial way. ‘High-ups. Very interested, very deep pockets.’

The professor’s elation dims a little at that news, though only a little. Rowena must have worked her charm on her protector, and he in turn must have used his influence to get the right elements in certain US agencies interested. Evangely is not a patriot in the usual sense, but if pressed he would admit he'd have preferred to stay closer to home. At least they needn't go to the Russians, because damn him if he’d ever take orders from the Reds!

‘When will arrangements be made for the move?’ he asks, already beginning to consider the necessary modifications he'd need to make to the equipment. The differences in electrical current and frequency might present some initial difficulties…

But Arkwright shakes his head again. ‘’Fraid it’s not a done deal yet. That’s why her ladyship sent me - they want to see you. Tonight.’

Evangely blinks, momentarily stunned. ‘Tonight?’ he asks blankly.

‘Yeah.’ Arkwright nods. ‘They want reassurances as to the viability of the project, and they want them from you.’

Evangely frowns, for the first time beginning to feel uneasy. Compared to the glacial progress of the past three months, things are suddenly moving quickly indeed – maybe far too quickly. Arkwright, however, catches the professor’s hesitation and leans forward, blue eyes eager and sincere.

‘You, tonight, or they say the deal’s off.’ He then shrugs. ‘They’re important men; they need to move fast, for security’s sake on all sides. Could be, y’know, _politically embarrassing_ for them if any word of their involvement were to get out.’

When put like that, it only seemed reasonable. The professor resents the inconvenience, but with a venture as fraught with risk as this he should have supposed any new party would want additional reassurances. There was, however, still one potential fly in the ointment.

‘And is there any news on the whereabouts of Colonel Olrik?’ he asks, lowering his voice.

Now it is Arkwright’s turn to look blank.

‘Uh, no,’ he says hesitantly, after a moment. ‘Not that I’ve heard.’

‘Damn!’ The curse hisses out from between Evangely’s teeth. Without Olrik the reassurances would not be as strong in reality as he could have wished. Well, they’d find the man sooner or later; in the meantime all he and Rowena need do is string the Americans along.

Arkwright still seems confused over the mention of Olrik, however, if the deepening frown on his flat brow is any indication. Clearly a Thought is struggling its way through that thick skull.

‘Why d’you need him, anyway?’ he asks, puzzled. ‘The guy’s gone. Surely you can just nab some other sap?’

Evangely narrows his eyes. For little more than a messenger, Arkwright is suddenly asking a lot of questions.

‘The reacquisition of Colonel Olrik is integral to the success of this project,’ he says tersely. ‘Not that it is any concern of yours. But we’ll find him again, whichever stone he’s crawled under this time, and I imagine with very little difficulty. Wretch is probably in some doss house, near comatose on morphine as we speak!’

There is a flicker of some expression in Arkwright’s small blue eyes – Disgust, maybe? If so, Evangely can hardly blame him. The personage McFarlene had captured in June had been a pathetic, broken specimen of a man. Even this Neanderthal is a level above that.

‘Yeah, well, whatever,’ Arkwright mutters, turning back to the subject in hand. ‘Short of it is her ladyship says it all hangs on your convincing them. You up for that, Prof?’

Evangely nods, satisfied. ‘I am, and I’ll meet them. Where do I need to go?’

Another grin breaks out across Arkwright’s misshapen face. ‘All taken care of. Her ladyship sent me with a car to take you there. If we start now, we’ll be there in an hour.’

Of course Rowena would send a car. Once again Evangely takes a moment to admire his associate’s efficiency. ‘Very well, I’ll come.’

‘Swell!’ Arkwright rises to his feet and fetches the professor’s overcoat and hat. He waits attentively as Evangely gathers up his briefcase, then helps him on with his coat before opening the door for him.

Outside in Reception Mrs Patch looks up sharply from her typewriter, somehow managing to radiate an aura of simultaneous disapproval and anxiety. Evangely forces himself to smile in a reassuring manner.

‘I’m just off to visit Mrs Danby, Mrs Patch,’ he says cheerily, putting on his hat. ‘Mr Arkwright here is being kind enough to give me a lift. I’ll go home straight after seeing her, so you can lock up.’

The secretary is clearly not happy about this (Is she ever happy about anything? Evangely wonders), but she gives a curt nod in acquiescence.

‘Very well, Dr Gilbert. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Mrs Patch. I’ll see you on Monday.’

‘You may not see her Monday,’ Arkwright murmurs under his breath, as they step outside the surgery into the damp night air. ‘Not if they decide to move on this immediately. D’you reckon you could leave without causing a stir tonight?’

Evangely waves a dismissive hand. ‘Of course. My rent’s paid a month in advance, as are my utilities. I have little in the way of belongings here, anticipating that I might need to relocate at short notice. I’ll be able to call in the morning and reassign my patient lists for the week – claim I need to go to Town urgently. The sudden bereavement of a relative should prove an acceptable excuse. By the time they realise I’m not coming back, I’ll be long gone,’

The gorilla snorts in amusement. ‘That’ll no end upset your dragon.’

Evangely can only sneer. ‘She’s had her uses, but the feeling will not be mutual.’

Arkwright lets out a guffaw. ‘I’ll bet, Prof! Never stand a stiff ol’ broad like her. Reminds me of my aunt.’

Oh, so the gorilla has family, does it? How charming. Still, the professor is about to spend an hour, maybe more, in the further company of this slab of muscle; best to humour it. For now, at least. So Evangely resists the temptation to roll his eyes and gives a humourless smile instead, and follows the goon as they descend the front steps to the pavement.

Once on the main road Arkwright indicates a side street a few yards away. ‘Didn’t want to park in the open,’ he comments simply. ‘Just on the off-chance we’re seen. It’ll make it harder for the cops if they don’t know what kind of vehicle you left in.’

Evangely makes a non-committal noise of assent, but privately he is impressed. For all his rough appearance, it is becoming clear that “Arkwright” certainly knows his stuff, and the professor takes a moment to give the man further contemplation. Beneath the battered fedora the blond hair is styled in a very neat short back and sides; almost too short to be respectable. He moves with a powerful, relaxed gait, shoulders slightly slumped but back straight, and though he is going a little soft around the edges, there is still serious muscle beneath the fat. Ex-military, perhaps, as well as being a former boxer? He is certainly old enough to have served in the last two wars, and Evangely has no trouble visualising him somewhere in the Pacific, or storming the beaches of Normandy. Most likely it was such experience for which Rowena’s protector had decided to hire him in the first place.

They turn the corner into the side street, and Evangely’s gaze lights upon what is obviously their transport; a dark red saloon parked under a streetlamp, brand new and obviously well-cared for.

Leaning up against the bonnet, patiently smoking a cigarette is another man; dark, shorter and scrawnier than Arkwright, sporting a dark blue overcoat and grey hat. At the sound of their approaching footsteps the man looks round, straightening up when he sees Arkwright. His beady eyes flit between the two of them.

‘This him?’ he asks Arkwright, in what Evangely recognises as a New York accent. Another American.

‘Yeah,’ Arkwright answers shortly. ‘We’re good to go.’

‘Right.’ The dark man – clearly the driver – drops his cigarette to the floor and grinds it beneath his heel, before moving to open the rear nearside door. Evangely is about to step towards the car when Arkwright suddenly speaks.

‘Oh yeah, Prof. One more thing before we go.’

Evangely turns to face him, frustrated and irritated by the delay, but doesn’t have time to demand an explanation before the henchman’s meaty fist slams into his left cheek with what feels like the force of a sledgehammer.

The world rocks on its axis and sparks fly across his vision. The professor tastes blood in his mouth as he hits the tarmac, dazed and in agony. He looks up, stupefied, and can make out Arkwright towering over him, massaging his knuckles; teeth bared in a malevolent grimace, blue eyes filled with hatred.

‘That’s for the boss!’ he growls.

_The boss_? Evangely’s mind races, desperately trying to make sense of the sudden change of circumstances through the cloud of pain, but any attempt at speculation is cut short as he is grabbed by the shoulders and a damp rag is clamped roughly over his nose and mouth. Immediately his senses are assaulted by the familiar, sickly-sweet smell of chloroform.

Panic takes control and Evangely begins to struggle, attempting to break free, but he is held firmly in place, the rag effectively muffling any shouts for help – which in reality turn into cries of pain as his cheekbones grind against each other unnaturally. Above him, he hears grating laughter.

‘Relax, Prof!’ Evangely recognises the driver’s flat, nasal voice as grey fog begins to fill his mind and vision. ‘Take it easy. You’re going on a nice little trip, all expenses paid, courtesy…’

But then the words merge into one another, and Evangely can no longer follow what is being said. As the professor’s eyes slide shut and he sinks towards oblivion, he muzzily acknowledges that there is one benefit to this situation; his cheek has stopped hurting at least…


	2. Invoice #001 (Southwark)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: Reference to emotional/psychological abuse. Turns out Evangely is even more of a horrible creep than Septimus.

_‘…will be ready to receive them. … Indeed, a most satisfactory conclusion to our business, Miss Sing. The remaining amount will be forwarded onto you as agreed. … Thank you, a pleasure. Goodbye.’_

_Evangely puts the receiver down, a satisfied smile on his face._

_Rowena and Bailey had arrived whilst he was on the phone, and stood waiting impatiently for him to finish. As soon as the handset is in the cradle. Bailey takes a step forward._

_‘Well?’ he demands, nervous with excitement._

_The professor makes him wait a few seconds longer, then looks around, his smile broadening._

_‘Success,’ he says smugly. ‘We have our Guinea Pig. McFarlane is bringing him here now. We have about fifteen minutes to prepare.’_

_Bailey lets out a bark of triumph and claps his hands together with satisfaction. Lady Rowena, however, purses her lips and furnishes the professor with a critical look._

_‘That’s not all Miss Sing told you, is it, Thomas?’_

_Evangely grins. She knows him too well._

_‘A very interesting development. That quack Kim managed to find out something about what is causing his fits. Apparently whilst under hypnosis the colonel revealed he was able to “see” Professor Mortimer conducting experiments with a reconstructed Telecephaloscope.’_

_Rowena’s perfect brow wrinkles with a frown. ‘Is that possible?’_

_‘It fits my theories,’ Evangely muses. ‘Firstly, that it was indeed Mortimer who emptied the Psychiatric Institute’s archives and is using Septimus’ equipment to conduct his own experiments. Secondly, that these experiments are feeding the colonel’s neurosis, meaning that even after a significant lapse of time and at a distance his mega wave is still somehow subject to the Telecephaloscope. All of which makes our task of further experimentation that much simpler.’_

_‘Excellent news indeed!’ Bailey chuckles, before Rowena can say another word. ‘And fifteen minutes, you say? We must certainly have a proper reception waiting!’_

_And with that the banker bustles off to begin chivvying people into making preparations. Rowena throws Evangely an arch look, but when the professor merely quirks an eyebrow in response, she sighs and follows on behind Bailey, shaking her head as she goes. Evangely smirks again. Dear Rowena. She would be worth twice the others, if she weren’t merely a woman._

_Just over a quarter of an hour and a fair amount of bustle later, there is the sound of a car drawing up outside. The engine cuts out and there is the slam of doors, followed by footsteps crunching on the tarmac and a muffled catch of voices._

_Evangely resists the urge to look out of the window, instead gripping his hands behind his back and doing his best to quash any outward show of impatience. They are upstairs in the old office of the warehouse; Rowena elegant as ever in a powder-blue ensemble and hat, Bailey affecting an air of stuffy superiority in his expensively tailored suit. The room has two exits – one leading to the hallway at the front of the building via a handsome wooden staircase, the other leading down to the warehouse floor, now the laboratory. A trestle table has been set up with a green cloth, a row of five full champagne glasses upon it, one of which already laced with a powerful sedative; Rowena’s butler, Manning, is poised behind the table ready to serve them. Two of Evangely’s technicians stand at the edge of the room, one of whom (Braithwaite, Evangely thinks the boy’s name is) has a hypodermic needle ready in his pocket and poised to intervene should things turn sour._

_In short, the stage is well and truly set._

_Another couple of minutes pass in silent expectation, then Evangely hears the sound of multiple people coming up the staircase from the hallway. A moment later the door opens and McFarlane steps through, followed by a man in a grey suit and hat, who is in turn ushered in at gunpoint by Bailey’s chauffeur._

_As he first sets eyes on the infamous Colonel Olrik, Evangely realises that he has no idea what he was expecting. Certainly he has heard plenty about the man’s exploits – Of those who lived through the last War, who hasn’t? – but in terms of looks, ethnicity or characteristics… details of those were lacking. McFarlane of course shared with them the description circulated internationally to all policing agencies, along with a very grainy copy of an identity card photo from some undisclosed source, but apart from that there was not much to go on. According to McFarlane, there never has been. Prejudice meant the colonel’s image had not appeared in the press of the Yellow Empire either, his masters at the time not all that eager to acknowledge a Westerner had played so vital a part in their campaign. Olrik simply seemed to have appeared from nowhere just after the Second War, and might just as easily have disappeared again, had it not been for Captain Blake and Professor Mortimer stumbling across his operations in Egypt._

_Therefore Evangely is neither surprised, impressed, nor disappointed as he regards the man in the grey suit. He appears to be in his late thirties, well above average height, of an athletic build with broad shoulders, a bull neck, strong jaw and aquiline profile. His hair is short and black, styled with military neatness, a thin, precise moustache adorning his upper lip. Evangely makes a quick assessment. Though he is outwardly composed and on the surface fit, it is nevertheless clear the colonel is not a well man. The dark blue eyes, which are busy sizing up the company as much as they are him, have an unhealthy sheen, and are ringed with dark shadows that make them appear somewhat sunken. His skin, though it would seem ordinarily fair, holds an unnatural pallor, the cheekbones just a little too accentuated. On closer inspection it can be observed that the suit, though of high quality and beautifully cut, hangs a little loosely on his large frame, a mis-aligned crease in his trousers indicating that the belt around his waist has been done up tighter than usual. The professor _ _has been reliably informed that the leather medical bag the colonel is carrying contains vials of morphine, along with the equipment necessary to administer it. The knuckles gripping the handle are white._

‘Be careful,’ _Miss Sing had warned him over the phone. _‘He may be ailing, but the beast still has teeth and claws.’

_Yet Evangely notes all these details and is pleased. Here is a man in his prime, otherwise physically fit and strong, but worn down by chronic nervous fatigue, vulnerable to mental suggestion, and beginning to show signs of a serious opiate addiction – a hollowed-out man, and no danger to anyone. Clearly Miss Sing is still in awe of what her charge used to be. What little is left of the notorious “colonel” will now provide the raw material from which Evangely will rebuild the first and best robot citizen. _

_‘Colonel Olrik,’ he says warmly. ‘Welcome to our humble enterprise. It is an honour to finally meet you.’_

_He steps forward and extends a hand, but the colonel does not reciprocate, merely fixing the professor with a gaze full of cold resentment._

_‘I didn’t have much choice in the matter,’ he says stonily. His English is perfect; no trace of a foreign accent whatsoever._

_Evangely is a little disappointed by the rebuff, but not unduly so. The colonel is not in a mood to play games; he will respect that. It’s not as if the wretch will have a say in anything else that happens to him from now on._

_‘True.’ The professor lowers his hand, but his smile does not falter. He indicates to the chauffeur to put away the gun. ‘Merely a precaution, though. You were in quite a hurry to leave Miss Sing’s establishment, and we would have hated for you to depart before hearing our proposition.’_

_He takes a step back and gestures to his confederates. _

_‘But allow me introduce our little company. I am Thomas Evangely, Professor of Neurology and formerly of the Royal Institute of Psychology. Lieutenant McFarlane, one-time of Scotland Yard, you have already met. Which leaves Mr Oscar Bailey, the celebrated banker, and last, but by no means least, Lady Rowena Sparke.’_

_The colonel’s eyes flicker to each of them in turn – lingering a fraction longer on Rowena, Evangely notices – his expression suspicious, calculating._

_‘And you are interested in engaging my services?’ he asks coolly, almost with disinterest. The implied “whoever you are” hangs in the air awkwardly between them. Rowena takes over smoothly from the professor._

_‘That we are, dear Colonel,’ she says brightly, putting on her most charming smile. She crosses to the table and takes the two glasses handed to her by Manning, pivoting gracefully and holding out the doctored glass to their victim. ‘But first, a toast to our anticipated alliance.’_

_Olrik still does not bite, though. He briefly eyes up the glass before replying in the same cool manner. _ _‘Thank you, madam, but I would prefer to know the specifics of the venture first. Don’t let me stop you, however.’_

_Is there a touch of sarcasm in the colonel’s tone as well? Has he guessed that the drink is drugged? Starting to become irritated, Evangely discreetly signals to his assistant to have the hypodermic ready whilst Rowena furnishes their “guest” with a disappointed pout. Perhaps Miss Sing may not have merely been indulging a passion for exotic simile._

_‘Come, my dear,’ Evangely chides Rowena playfully. ‘Don’t take offence. The Colonel is naturally curious as to our interests – as is any right-thinking man before entering into joint venture. Isn’t that so, Bailey?’_

_‘Oh, absolutely,’ the banker replies jovially, both he and Rowena sensing the change in tactics and picking up accordingly. ‘Terms, outlay, expected returns, acceptable risk and all that.’_

_‘Quite.’ Evangely smiles again. ‘As Miss Sing may have conveyed to you, Colonel, we are very interested in the means you had at your disposal whilst you were, ah, _directed_ by Septimus.’_

_Olrik gives an involuntary flinch at the mention of his tormentor – tiny, almost imperceptible, but Evangely was watching for it. Excellent. The trauma is indeed deep._

_‘There I cannot help you,’ Olrik says bitterly, a glitter of anger in his eye. Doubtless to compensate for the show of weakness. ‘The abilities of the Yellow M were a product of Septimus’ machine, and that no longer exists.’_

_Evangely inwardly smirks. The colonel is good, he’ll give him that; not letting on a hint of what he knows about Mortimer’s experiments._

_Rowena gives a charming laugh. ‘Oh, surely you give yourself too little credit, Colonel!’_

_‘Lady Rowena is correct.’ Evangely takes up the thread again. ‘Though what Septimus achieved was remarkable, the successful execution of those sensational crimes was in no small way down to your own particular set of talents. Raiding the Bank of England, the National Gallery, Downing Street, the Tower…! A lesser agent would have fallen at the first fence. And my colleagues and I are keen to see if such successes might be replicated.’_

_Olrik’s eyes remain wary, but Evangely can see that they are beginning to catch his interest. Appealing to the man’s ego was a good move. After all, having sunk so low he will doubtless cling to the slenderest shred of self-esteem._

_‘If Miss Sing has kept you informed as to my condition,’ he says after a moment’s silence. ‘Then you will be aware that I am unwell. Much as you flatter me with your proposal, my capabilities are at present limited.’_

_There is a further sign of strain in that expression; it pains him to admit to his present weakness, which serves Evangely’s purposes perfectly._

_‘Indeed we are,’ the professor confirms, adopting a sympathetic tone. ‘I am well appraised of your latest symptoms, and it is with this in mind that I believe it may be in my power to help you.’_

_Olrik’s attention snaps back to Evangely, and Evangely alone._

_‘You “believe” so?’ he echoes sarcastically, but also with a ring of challenge. He wants to hear what the professor has to say. He needs to._

_Evangely nods his head gravely._

_‘I do.’ _Careful now. Reel him in slowly._ ‘As I mentioned before, I am a neurologist–’_

_‘– formerly of the Royal Institute of Psychology,’ Olrik remarks blithely. The emphasis on the "formerly" strikes home, but Evangely forces himself not to rise to the jibe. The wretch will pay for that later._

_‘Retirement comes to us all,’ the professor says dismissively instead. ‘But most pertinently, I recently gained access to many of Septimus’ notes, and as such have formed a working hypothesis as to the cause of your fits – and thus a way to cure you of them.’_

_A complex tangle of emotions flicker across the colonel’s face; scepticism, suspicion, anger, desperation, hope. The hand holding the medical bag also tightens its grip. It makes for a pitiful sight._

_‘You think a cure possible?’ he asks, doing a valiant job to try and keep his voice steady, but there is a shade too much emotion in there, perhaps even the slightest hint of a tremor._

_Evangely smiles warmly. ‘I think it likely, yes. In fact, I’d say almost certainly. I will be able to explain it better were I to show you my research.’_

_Now they are getting to it; the denouement, the final act. His victim has taken the bait, and he is ready to reel him in._

_Evangely steps to one side and indicates the laboratory door; an open invitation for Olrik to follow him. And, after a slight hesitation, the colonel follows; not just due to the imposition of his surroundings, but because his own psyche compels him towards even the slightest chance of salvation. Evangely opens the door and steps through, careful to block the colonel’s view of the laboratory floor until they are both out on the gantry, Braithwaite and his colleague in position behind them. Then, like a conjurer unveiling his final trick, the professor steps to one side and gestures expansively to the set up below._

_He looks around just in time to see Olrik’s face turn ashen. At the sight of the distinctive arc generator and chair covered in straps and wires, the colonel’s eyes widen with naked fear, his mouth dropping open and a low, raw moan of despair escapes his throat. Confronted with his doom the man is no more; the slave is broken completely, stripped of all dignity or hope._

_And at this, the orchestrated moment, the technicians would step forward, sedate the pitiful creature and convey him to the cell they have prepared, ready to begin the process that will resurrect Septimus’ Guinea Pig._

_But this is not what happens._

_Evangely’s assistants are in place. They step forward to grab hold of Olrik, the needle ready to administer the dose._

_Only the colonel is no longer where they expect him to be. In the blink of an eye he has dropped low, turned on the soles of his feet, swings the medical bag round as a makeshift battering ram and lays the astonished men out flat, sprinting his way back through the office and making a bolt for the exit._

_‘Stop him!’ Evangely hears himself shriek. Before he fully knows what he is doing he has leapt over the dazed technicians and is running after the colonel. ‘Grab him! Quick!’_

_Fortunately McFarlane did not wait for the order, but only seeing a fugitive had instinctively given pursuit, moving quickly to intercept Olrik and rugby tackle him to the ground._

_The medical bag goes flying, as do Olrik’s fists. A brutal tussle ensues, Olrik snarling and spitting like a wild animal, his face contorted in an expression of savage fury, choking the life from McFarlane with an iron grip. But the delay is long enough for the chauffeur, Bailey and Manning to come to the lieutenant’s rescue, piling on top of the fiend and breaking the chokehold, forcing him back and down, pinning him to the ground by weight of numbers alone._

_Evangely snatches the syringe from a stupefied Braithwaite, checks to make sure it is still full and the needle undamaged, and hastens over to the scrum._

_‘Hold him still!’ he barks. ‘Give me his arm!’_

_At this Olrik lets out a howl of rage and lashes out wildly, but Braithwaite and the other assistant have arrived now and lend their strength to the fray. An arm is prized up, the fabric of the suit and shirt sleeve ripped away to reveal bare skin. Even were there not the old needle marks to guide him, Evangely would have had no problem picking out a vein in that too pale flesh. Not bothering with the niceties, the professor takes a grip on Olrik’s forearm and slides the needle in._

_The sedative is as strong as they dared make it, but it still takes a good minute before the colonel’s struggles cease. He fights against the encroaching torpor ‘til the end, but at last they feel the resistance leave him and their victim goes limp. _ _Cautiously, Evangely bends down and checks the colonel’s pulse, breathing, pupil dilation. He is well, safely unconscious, and physically unharmed._

The beast may be ailing, but he still has claws and teeth.

_McFarlane, who has recovered himself and is massaging his neck where Olrik tried to crush the breath from him, lets out a low whistle as Evangely straightens up again._

_‘He was a lively one, no mistake!’ he remarks hoarsely. Bailey is bent over double, trying to regain his breath and dignity. Rowena seems outwardly composed, but her face is pale. The incident has unsettled her greatly._

_‘That was careless,’ she says icily. ‘We cannot allow for that mistake again.’_

_‘We won’t!’ Evangely snaps, wholly unappreciative of her criticism. After all, _she_ hadn’t raised a finger to stall their fugitive. He glares at the prone form of the colonel, with his ripped suit and tussled hair, then turns to the technicians who have just about regained their composure. ‘Take him to the cell, and get him ready. Go with them, McFarlane, and make sure nobody slips up.’_

_Intimidated by their employer’s temper, Braithwaite and his colleague lift Olrik between them and carry him through the lab door, followed by McFarlane. The professor hears their uneven footsteps descending the gantry as they struggle under their heavy burden._

_With the deed accomplished and calm once more descending, Evangely sets his shoulders and smooths back a wayward lock of hair that has fallen forward over his eyes. It is then that he realises that he is still holding the empty syringe and, what’s more, that the hand holding it is shaking._

_Instinctively he looks up and sees Rowena watching him, and a mocking smile curls at the corners of her lips. Irritated, Evangely walks over to the table and lays the empty syringe down with deliberate care, whilst also taking equal care not to snatch up one of the clean glasses of champagne and down it in one. Well. Inelegant the final act may have been, but they had achieved the desired result; they have their Guinea Pig, and Septimus’ dream of a new World Order will be in their grasp._

_And Thomas Evangely shall be the great architect of their triumph._


	3. Farleigh Templeton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One down. Evangely has a rude awakening, and the Colonel begins to settle the score.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It got darker. I really wasn't expecting it to. :/

The world returns slowly, but when it arrives, it does so with a vengeance.

Evangely moans, then stifles a gasp. The whole left side of his face feels stiff and swollen, tender to the slightest movement of his jaw. He can’t be sure, but he wouldn’t be surprised if his cheekbone is cracked.

‘…definitely awake.’ He hears a voice say. Uncultured. American. Familiar somehow. ‘Go tell the boss.’

Hurried footsteps rush past and behind him, ascending what sounds like a short flight of stone steps, followed by a door slamming shut. A heavy, old, and solid door. The sound echoes in the space around him.

As Evangely fights to open his eyes, his recent memories begin to catch up with him. The first thing he notes, after the pain, is that he seems to have been stripped to his shirt sleeves and bound tightly to a very uncomfortable wooden chair.

So, he has been found and captured – but not by the police, it would seem, nor the Security Services. Well, not the British Services, anyway; this is not their style. Who, then? Some other agency that has found out about the Telecephaloscope and wants its secrets for their own? American Secret Services? The DIA? Or maybe it’s some other murkier, unofficial faction? God forbid it be the Russians…

His vision has just about cleared. From where he is slumped forward in the chair, he is met with the view of the scuffed tips of his shoes (The professor can’t help but wince) and a floor made of old red brick, arranged in a herringbone pattern. The air around him has the dry, musty smell of old limestone. He can hear the faint mechanical rumbling of a generator somewhere further away. The place seems well lit. He catches the scent of cheap tobacco smoke.

This is, however, as far as his train of thought manages to run. A huge figure steps in front of him, effectively blocking out most of the light.

‘C’mon, Prof, rise and shine!’ Again, that familiar voice; American, a mocking edge to its false cheerfulness. Evangely remembers the blond gorilla-like thug giving his name as “Arkwright”. ‘No time to be caught napping!’

The henchman’s huge hand reaches forward and he gently taps his fingers against Evangely’s broken cheek. The professor’s cry is very nearly a scream.

‘That’s the spirit!’ Through the searing pain, Evangely can hear the grin in the man’s voice. ‘Can’t have you still all dopey when the boss gets here, can we? That wouldn’t be polite.’

Despite the agony, Evangely wills himself to try and keep it together. Summoning his resolve, he lifts his head so that he can see something more of his surroundings. Pain lances through the side of his face and he hisses, sparks shooting across his vision and making him feel as if he wants to be sick. By the feel of things his captors weren’t too gentle handling him in other places either, but he forces himself to try and focus.

In front of him, at an alarmingly close proximity, is Arkwright. The man’s misshapen features have formed into a malevolent smirk, his small blue eyes watching Evangely like a hungry dog might watch a bone. It is not an expression that gives the professor high hopes for his immediate future.

Stealing a glance sideways, it is clear that they are in the cellar of some large building; old limestone vaults in a vaguely ecclesiastical design. It’s clean though, warm and not cluttered, and illuminated by an overhead electric light – an inhabited building, then, and not a ruin. There are no windows, and no obvious door within his line of sight. It’s not a small space, about thirty feet across and about the same deep, but it feels closed off. Secure.

‘Hey! Eyes over here, Prof.’

Evangely’s gaze snaps back to the gorilla. Again, despite the pain he is in his mind turns to the question of who has him prisoner. This man, whatever his real name, is clearly hired muscle, and three times he’s mentioned a “boss”. Perhaps he is not from an agency of any sort, but on the payroll of a private interest? Could be he works for one of the up and coming gangs in London; a few strong individuals having emerged from the rubble of the last War and gained some pretty powerful backers. As Septimus very clearly demonstrated the Telecephaloscope’s potential in the field of organised crime, this is an all too viable option.

Evangely does his best to ignore the grating sensation as he moves his jaw to try and speak.

‘Who?’ he asks. His mouth is dry and voice hoarse, but he manages to make the words audible. ‘Why?’

‘You mean you haven’t figured it out?’ Arkwright’s grin turns predatory. ‘And I thought you scientist types were meant to be smart! But you’ll find out soon enough; the boss is _real_ keen to see you again. Like I’m real glad he picked me to go fetch you.’

The thug takes a step back, straightening up as he regards Evangely with narrowed eyes.

‘Y’see, it’s my job to look out for the boss, but it was kinda hard luck that I was inside when he was sick, so he couldn’t arrange to get me out. ‘Cause had I been around, neither you nor your cronies woulda been able to lay a finger on him – so I take it personal that you were able to.’ Arkwright’s expression darkens. ‘Pity he told me to deliver you in once piece, else you’d lose a lot more than just your good looks.’

Then the man grins again, forming his right hand into a fist and begins to massage the knuckles slowly, contemplatively.

‘Though I guess I might let my enthusiasm get the better of me,’ he muses. ‘Y’know, you insulting the boss like that last night. God knows I have a temper on me! The wrong word from you, who’s to say I wouldn’t –’

‘Enough, Sharkey.’

The command cuts through the air of the cellar like a scalpel; sharp, precise, and brokering no argument. At the sound of the voice, Evangely feels as if a bucket of ice water has been poured down his spine.

_Him!_

A “boss” whom Evangely has somehow wronged, who has been ill, who apparently wants revenge… All the puzzle pieces are rapidly clicking into place, and together they form a devastating picture.

The effect on the American – the eponymous ‘Sharkey’, it would seem – is immediate. He hurriedly steps back from Evangely, dropping his huge hands to his sides and adopting an expression of guilt that puts the professor oddly in mind that the dog stopped hankering after a bone and has been caught stealing the Sunday joint.

‘Sorry, Boss,’ the man says hastily, meekly. ‘Didn’t hear you come in.’

‘Evidently.’

Sharkey flinches slightly at the sneer in that smooth, cultured voice. Somewhat unfairly too, Evangely thinks distractedly, with the small part of his brain that remains free from bewilderment. That door is old and heavy; _how_ had he opened it without making any noise?

‘Honest, Boss, I was only goin’ to rough him up a little,’ Sharkey continues, seemingly determined to dig himself out of this hole. ‘Nothing permanent-like.’

‘And I said “Enough”,’ the "boss" says sternly. ‘You can go.’

Yet the man doesn’t move immediately. Rather he seems uncomfortable, hesitant to leave.

‘You sure you don’t need me? Spare pair of hands might come in useful.’

‘Later.’ The answer this time comes across as more long-suffering than scolding. ‘Go and join the rest of the boys upstairs. Cook is about to serve dinner.’

At this the gorilla’s face lights up. He is not to be punished, at least for now, but fed. It also seems that food might be the only thing that will persuade him to vacate his post.

‘Ok, Boss. Thanks. But if you want me, let Jimmy know and he’ll come get me.’

And then he leaves, crossing to the stairs behind Evangely. The professor hears his hefty feet ascending, followed by the creaking slam of the door.

There is a short pause as the echo dies down again into silence, and then the next Evangely hears is the steady _tap tap tap_ of leather soles descending the short flight of stone steps. Light. Measured. Confident.

Evangely tries to still his pounding heart as the footsteps approach, knowing that the man who owns them is deliberately taking his time, looking to unsettle his prisoner before he even begins. A common interrogation tactic, the professor reminds himself grimly, because it works. Even though he knows what is coming next, the waiting proves excruciating.

The footsteps come closer. Closer, closer, until at last Colonel Olrik is stood directly in front of him, occupying the space that was moments before taken up by his lackey.

But it is with something of a shock that Evangely realises he has never seen this man before. The Colonel Olrik that had been brought to the professor in June was a pale, trembling wreck of a human, wasted by nervous fatigue and a slave to morphine. Evangely had viewed him as something of a curiosity; an elderly tiger caged, wounded by too many battles, such that it would have been a kindness to end its existence altogether – which, in a sense, was what he had intended.

Yet this Olrik is almost unrecognisable from that hollow-eyed creature. His skin is a healthy tone, his black hair neatly trimmed and smoothed back into its patent-leather style with military precision. His face has filled out a bit, as has his frame. There is a vital spark that had been missing from those dark blue eyes before, a sharpness and focus. The broad shoulders and straight back hold no hint of nervous tension. He is poised, composed, utterly in control of himself and everything in this room.

The tiger has rested, recuperated, and revealed itself to be a maneater.

Olrik regards Evangely with what seems like amusement, the corners of his mouth lifting up in a mocking smile.

‘You’ve decided to join us at last, Professor Evangely,’ he says dryly. ‘I’m glad.’

Evangely’s heart pounds and his mind begins to race anew. _Olrik!_ Of all the people he thought would be after him, he had never considered… But it should have been impossible! The man had been broken beyond repair. Such a wreck should not have been capable of pursuing him or Rowena. _That_ Olrik had been too busy running from his own mind to be a danger to anyone else.

‘No word, Professor? No mutual greeting? You seem remarkably upset for a man who has spent so much time and effort trying to discover my whereabouts. I would have thought you’d be pleased to see me!’

Evangely tries to form a reply, but the words simply die in his gullet. He can only sit there, staring, disbelieving at the transformation that has occurred. Somehow he feels as if he has been tricked or cheated. How had nobody warned him that his might be an action he’d live to regret?

Olrik smirks again, and walks over to a small table and another wooden chair which Evangely hadn’t really noticed before. Judging by the abandoned newspaper, empty beer bottle and glass, and the old saucer filled with cigarette butts serving as a makeshift ashtray, this must be where Arkwright (_No, Sharkey,_ Evangely corrects himself) must have sat guard whilst waiting for him to regain consciousness. Oddly, there is also what appears to be an old steel toolbox on the table; blue, paint peeling off it in small flakes to reveal the rusted surface beneath.

The colonel removes his navy blue suit jacket and carefully hangs it over the back of the rickety chair – no hint of pain nor stiffness in his limbs. Evangely can tell there is healthy muscle under that shirt.

‘You disappoint me, Professor. Still, I will not neglect my manners as your host.’ Olrik gestures airily to their surroundings. ‘Welcome to Templeton Manor. We are just outside the village of Farleigh Templeton; a delightful little place situated in the Cotswolds. Very picturesque. Quite isolated.’

The colonel reaches up and starts to undo his bowtie.

‘This site has been occupied since Norman times,’ he continues, for all the world as if he is a host regaling a guest during brandy and cigars. ‘The original house has been rebuilt and modified over the centuries, of course, but the cellars remain largely unchanged. Except for this section.’

He slips the tie from his neck, folding it neatly and tucking it into the jacket top pocket with his handkerchief, undoing his collar button.

‘It’s a very interesting story. The fourteenth baronet, Sir Archibald Templeton, was a favourite of the early Stuart kings.’ Olrik next removes his gold cufflinks and pockets them, and carefully rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to just above the elbows, revealing his pale forearms. From where Evangely is sitting, he can see that there are no new needle marks whatsoever. ‘After the plot of 1605 was uncovered, he became fixated on the idea that he might become a target for Popish assassins. So he devised a plan to have the cellars of his country estate reinforced with a revolutionary design of separate “double-skinned” chambers, which in the event of attack could be closed off from the outside world. A proto-bunker, if you will.’

The colonel fishes inside a jacket pocket, taking out a gold cigarette case and cigarette holder. He fits one, places the case down on the table and takes out his lighter from his trouser pocket – gold also. He holds the flame steady as he inhales, then breathes out a plume of smoke. Evangely’s senses are immediately assaulted by the scent of quality Turkish tobacco. Good thing he doesn’t smoke himself, else this doubtlessly would have set off a craving.

‘Sadly he never had cause to put it to the test. Sir Archibald unfortunately also considered himself something of a thinker, and not long after the work was completed he came up with the notion that taking a colloidal solution of red lead, charcoal, olive oil and rosemary with his nightly porter would improve digestion and promote the circulation of the blood. He was dead within two years of his new regimen. However, his legacy has left us with a very secure and very soundproof set of rooms.’

Olrik turns, looks directly at Evangely, and smiles.

‘Which I am sure you will come to appreciate.’

The villain’s meaning is all too clear, and Evangely feels his throat go dry. But something in that smug, triumphal expression rallies the professor’s pride enough to answer back.

‘Don’t be so confident,’ he rasps. ‘I still have allies, powerful friends, people who want to see the Work continued. They’ll come looking for me.’

‘Maybe.’ Olrik takes a long drag from his cigarette, and breathes out luxuriantly. ‘But I believe your “powerful friends” are more than a little cautious of being openly associated with a fugitive wanted by the Secret Services, and will lose time trying to cover their own tracks before they even begin looking for you. Secondly – do you imagine I don’t have influential associates of my own? There are many, _many_ people in this world for whom it is much more convenient that I remain alive and at liberty than otherwise.’

‘The Secret Services, then!’ Evangely snaps, ignoring the fresh spike of pain this causes. ‘The hunt is on for both Rowena and I – not to mention _you_. Blake and his men will work out what happened to me and come after you!’

Olrik casts him a cool look, apparently wholly unruffled at the prospect. ‘If by some miraculous stroke of competency they do, it won’t be for a while. We are several hundred miles from where you were last seen; Wiltshire, to be precise. And thanks to your own impenetrable set-up, no one yet knows Dr Jeremy Gilbert is missing, let alone your real identity. But all the more reason for me to act fast and destroy every last trace of that devil’s machine before they do. And in this you are going to help me, Professor Evangely.’

Evangely bridles. 'If you think I'm going to tell you where Rowena is -'

The colonel waves an impatient hand. 'Do not misunderstand me, professor; I don't _require _any information from you. I am more concerned with its suppression.'

Even as he realises the precariousness of his situation, something twists in Evangely’s gut; a mix of anger and indignation. How _dare_ this creature, who not so long ago was less than the dirt on his shoe, think he can dictate to him? But Evangely also recognises it as an illogical reaction, one based on emotion, and this is not the time for emotional thinking. He has to be careful, cautious, direct his actions. What does he know about Olrik? Not much, alas, as he had not concerned himself with the character of his subject and left most of that to McFarlane. Fine, then. The colonel is a sort of mercenary, isn’t he? Perhaps appealing to his mercenary sensibilities might provide a way out?

‘If it’s money you want, we’ll give it to you,’ Evangely says bluntly. He is finding his voice again, although his cheek is still in agony and his throat feels like sandpaper. ‘You must know we still have funds – substantial funds! Spare me, and I’ll agree to any price, any terms you want.’

Olrik sneers around his cigarette holder.

‘Please! Money is no compensation for what I have endured. Besides, since my recovery became common knowledge a number of potential clients have approached me, eager to find out what I know of the machine. Fortunately they don’t know the precise nature of my involvement, and are clueless to the role that I played in Septimus’ original plot. The sums I have been offered for information are, quite frankly, breath-taking – but I turned every last one of them down. I will not sell myself into slavery for any price.’

Not money, then, Evangely thinks hastily, fighting down a rising wave of unease. _Rethink. Reassess._ The professor returns to his strategy, examining his experience of Olrik. The colonel had been damaged both mentally as well as physically before being brought to him in June, and it has not yet been two months since Olrik recovered consciousness from being made comatose by whatever alien energy had guided the Waves. Here the colonel stands, on the surface as if all is perfectly well; but both the psychologist and neurologist in Evangely know that this cannot possibly be the case inside. Olrik’s behaviour in Southwark had already shown a fragile mental condition; the magnitude of trauma the colonel has experienced since can in no way have healed in little over a month – and herein may lay the professor’s salvation. Evangely’s experiments in the field of mental illness before he was struck off had revealed that if the right associations with a specific trauma are invoked, then it is possible to trigger the associated neurosis in the patient. There is no reason why the same should not apply to Olrik.

Straightening up in his chair as much as the bonds and his bruised body will allow, Evangely focusses his gaze to directly meet the colonel’s eyes and puts on a disdainful grimace that is not in the least staged. Of course, a controlled environment would be more ideal where he could give proper consideration to his line of approach, but he does not have that luxury.

‘Do you honestly think that I am intimidated by _you?_’ he sneers coldly. ‘That I am the least impressed by this childish game of gangsters? You may think you have the upper hand, but you are only fooling yourself.’

There. A slight flicker in the carefully studied hauteur. Evangely presses on, doubles down to prize open the chink in the armour.

‘You forget, I saw the wretched being you were when we found you; broken, washed-up in that doss house, hiding behind the skirts of a Chinese whore! A snivelling, wasted excuse for a human, scared of his own shadow!’

The confidence slips from the colonel’s expression, the certainty leaving his eyes as Evangely notes with glee the return of that haunted look. Yes, it’s working. The professor goes for the jugular, pouring every ounce of contempt and willpower into his attitude and voice.

‘Yes, where was your courage then, “Colonel”? When I remember how pitiful you were, how you screamed and cried in your cell, huddled like a frightened child –’

But Evangely’s flow dries up in astonishment as the colonel starts laughing. Not hysterical laughter, either, but a laugh of actual amusement.

He is laughing _at_ Evangely.

‘Of course I screamed. It _hurt!_.’ The look Olrik gives Evangely is once again utterly self-assured, and implies he thinks the professor a simpleton. ‘And nor is there any point in your trying to “get inside” my head, Evangely, because I have spent the better part of two years effectively trapped with little more than my own thoughts. There is no horror of the unconscious mind you can rake up that I have not already faced and defeated.’ He taps a clump of ash off the end of his cigarette into the saucer. ‘Too bad for you.’

Evangely sits there as if turned to stone, shaken to the core and trying to grasp this sudden change of events. Just now he had been certain the colonel was breaking again, but that had been… an act? Was _Olrik_ toying with _him_? But that isn't right! That wasn't how the theory was supposed to pan out! Disturbed, he wracks his increasingly taxed brain into trying to come up with another way to rectify this. _Think, man! _ He can feel his nervous system giving in to chemical impulse – heart rate elevated again, sweat springing from his pores, fear, confusion – No! Unacceptable! He is Professor Thomas Evangely; he is a genius, peerless amongst his generation, the natural successor to the great Jonathan Septimus. He can, _must_ think his way out of this! What else, what else is there?

_Compensation. Revenge._ Olrik views this as a personal attack; a crime against his ego, his very identity. Appealing to said ego had worked before; it might do so again. Yes, he can still beat this mere soldier, outthink a common criminal –

No. Not common.

The thought strikes Evangely like a thunderbolt. That was the entire root of this, wasn’t it?

‘Listen, Olrik,’ the professor says urgently, sincerely. ‘I want you to understand. There was no personal malice towards you. Our pursuing you was purely and simply adhering to the principles of Science.’

Olrik gives a disgusted snort and clenches the cigarette holder between his teeth, turning his back on Evangely.

‘Science!’ He says dispassionately. He reaches over to the old toolbox and opens it. The hinges of the lid give a brief squeal of protest. ‘You pretend to be as guileless as that fool Mortimer? No, _you_ never could be.’

Evangely licks his strangely dry lips. He can feel the perspiration trickling down the back of his neck, seeping into his well-starched collar.

‘You were Septimus’ greatest creation; his ideal superhuman.’

‘I was nothing more than an automaton!’ Olrik snaps. Yet he does not turn around the face Evangely. Instead he begins to remove items from the toolbox and lay them carefully in front of him on the table, focussed in his fury. ‘I had been brainwashed, enslaved and humiliated once, so you thought you would do it again? You would have done better to find somebody else to play your Guinea Pig!’

‘But that’s the point – we couldn’t!’ Evangely says earnestly. ‘You weren’t just Septimus’ first Guinea Pig, you were his best! It was in his notes, after he subjected Calvin, Verney and Macomber to the machine. There was no one else that we could test it on effectively.’

At this Olrik hesitates in his work, and turns to look at Evangely again. The expression on his face is one of cold neutrality, but there is a look of curiosity in those sharp, dark eyes. He removes the cigarette holder from his mouth and exhales.

‘Go on,’ he says quietly.

Evangely sits up as much as he can and leans forward, ignoring the pain this movement causes, his eyes alight with fervour – willing Olrik to understand, to appreciate the necessary logic.

‘Septimus succeeded in manipulating their mega waves to control them mentally, but physically? They were nowhere near as strong as you, nor as fast and agile. Nor could they create an EMP field to match yours! The doctor had no time to subject them to rigorous testing, but I could tell that he was already disappointed with them. He had not been able to replicate his success with you, suggesting that some mega waves were stronger than others, more suitable for use in this fashion. By sheer luck, chance – fate, even! – he had stumbled across a mega wave in you that was perfectly suited to his designs. It could have taken us months, years maybe, to find another subject as suitable as you. If we were to be successful we needed you, Colonel Olrik; and only you.’

For a moment the colonel is silent, regarding Evangely’s eager face with that same unreadable expression. Then he turns to the table he has been leaning against, which the professor can now see has a variety of household tools laid out on it; a pair of pliers, a chisel, a mallet with a Vulcanised rubber head, two C-clamps, and a small brass blow lamp.

‘So, from what you have just said, and that which Sharkey reported to me earlier, Septimus’ notes mark me out as the most suitable subject he found for the Telecephaloscope.’ Olrik picks up the chisel and examines the tip with a thoughtful air, turning it this way and that in the light. He gives a thin, humourless smile. ‘From an admittedly small sample, but a sample nonetheless. That means as long as there’s a chance of someone – you, or anyone else – resurrecting that infernal machine, both my liberty and sanity are at risk. As that is a state of affairs I find unacceptable, it is up to me to ensure all traces of Septimus work are destroyed. A large part of this has already been taken care of, ironically, by my dear enemy Professor Mortimer. His moral compass was so appalled at what nearly came to pass in June that he destroyed everything to do with the machine he could find – including his own notes, equipment, even the British Library’s copy of _The Mega Wave_, which under any other circumstance would be considered a criminal offence. But I’m sure you’re aware of this. So it is down to me to make sure that all remaining knowledge is erased, and this includes that which resides in your head, and those of your co-conspirators. And my reach is far longer than Blake’s or Mortimer’s, or any of the British Secret Services.’

Evangely’s gaze fixes on the chisel. From where he is sitting, it appears to be ominously blunt.

‘One thing that has long set me aside from my contemporaries, Professor, is that I have always been aware of my own worth.’ The colonel continues smoothly. ‘Nor have I ever been coy in advertising my abilities to potential clients. To name but a few; I am a master horseman, and Olympic level swordsman. I am fluent in twelve languages, with a working knowledge of another seven. I am a chess Grandmaster, and have been compared to Brahmin Sissa in that regard. I am an Intelligence operative of considerable experience, with a back catalogue of successful missions that would put Silvermaster to shame. I have the ability to change my own appearance so completely that not even my worst enemies could recognise me. Give me five minutes alone with its controls, and I can pilot any aircraft known to man. I have commanded an army the like of which will probably never be seen again in our lifetime.’

Olrik’s focus shifts back to Evangely.

‘I can excuse Septimus his ignorance. He had no idea who I was, and no clue which might have led to his finding out. Nor did he have any reason to suspect. How could he? As far as he knew, the world believed me dead! But you, Evangely, you and your confederates knew exactly who I was; my skills, my achievements, my capabilities… Yet over everything I could offer, you would have preferred instead to make me into a mindless slave; a puppet with no will or thought of its own.’ Olrik’s eyes take on a dark, dangerous gleam. ‘And that, Professor, I will not forgive.’

And as Evangely feels the blood drain from his face, terrified by what he sees in the colonel’s eyes, he is confronted with a moment of dreadful clarity. He will not leave this room alive.

But it will be some time before he leaves it.


	4. Invoice #002 (Southwark)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving through the list...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: Depictions of physical abuse and drug abuse.

_The Guinea Pig only stopped screaming half an hour ago._

_Lady Rowena enters the corridor leading to the cell, Evangely’s senior technicians, Braithwaite and Hopkins, following closely at her heels. She knows she cuts an incongruous figure in these surroundings – coiffed, heeled and coutured amongst industrial refuse, and armed with a service issue Browning, supplied courtesy of McFarlane. But the Creed of Lady Rowena Sparke’s existence, her very success, revolves around one simple tenet: If you must do something, do it with style._

_They have converted what used to be an old store room on the first floor which Evangely and McFarlane had declared suitably secure; solid brick walls, no windows, only one exit, and only one source of electricity in the form of the single light fitting, which is controlled from a switch outside the room. Septimus’ notes had detailed the specifications of his Guinea Pig’s “cage”; an elaborate padded cell within his purpose-built underground bunker, featuring a reinforced steel door and a mechanism to administer sleeping gas into the ventilation system should the occupant need to be pacified._

_It had been ingenious and impressive, like all of Septimus’ work, but Evangely had concluded they need not be so elaborate in their own arrangements. Firstly, there were more of them. Septimus had needed to manage his Guinea Pig on his own, and thus had required every assistance he could possibly contrive. Secondly, this time they are not reconditioning a wildman to civilisation; the subject is in possession of his faculties, at least in all the ways that matter. And thirdly, they already have two effective ways of bringing their Guinea Pig to heel; the new “pulse lamp” that is Evangely’s improvement on Septimus’ disc and, outside of the laboratory, there is the subject’s dependence on morphine._

_It is to exploit this second containment method that brings Rowena to the cell now. Having finally acquired and subdued their subject last night, Evangely ruled to deprive him of morphine for the next twelve hours; ostensibly to observe one of his “fits” play out its natural course and determine what could be learnt from it, but also to give the Guinea Pig an idea of the punishment that awaited him should he refuse to behave himself._

_Rowena had not stayed to watch. Though she acknowledged that degradation was a necessary course of action on occasion, unlike Thomas she found it distasteful. Not out of any sympathy for the victim, of course, but that she viewed it as messy and on the whole tedious. Besides, on this occasion she’d had a prior engagement to attend; the façade must be maintained towards Society, and all that. Instead she had been assured of receiving a detailed report from Evangely when she returned that afternoon._

_Not that she had really needed it, seeing as when she had arrived two hours ago the “progress” of Evangely’s little experiment was plain for all to hear. It’s a mercy that the warehouse where they have established themselves possesses very thick walls and is surrounded by empty buildings._

_Slowing her pace, Rowena approaches the cell cautiously, peering through the grille in the top. At the beginning of the project, when it became clear that they needed the original Guinea Pig to continue the Work, Evangely had devised a set of rules to govern interaction with and treatment of their prize once they had acquired him. Dehumanisation was essential for scientific impartiality, Evangely asserted, and to quash any potential resistance from their specimen – conscious or unconscious – during procedures. To this end Colonel Olrik would no longer be referred to by his title or name; only as ‘the subject’ or ‘Guinea Pig’. Nor, like any other lab animal, would he be entitled to any degree of privacy; hence no shutter had been fitted to the door to shield the occupant at any time from outside view._

_The smell of vomit and other bodily effluvia assaults her senses the minute she puts her face to the grille. Evangely had run through the symptoms of severe opiate withdrawal, and they were not pleasant – shaking, sweating, vomiting, abdominal and muscle cramps, to name but a few. Apparently the subject had experienced all of these, along with being visited by the hallucinations unique to his neurosis. Still, being forewarned makes it no less pleasant, and she wrinkles her nose in disgust. The cell’s occupant is huddled in a corner of the room, back to the door, quiet and still. The only other features to be seen are a bare wooden bunk and a chamber pot; the minimum of creature comforts that could be provided._

_After installing him in his new home and whilst he was still sedated, McFarlane had overseen as the technicians had stripped their subject to his undergarments and dressed him in the replica “costume” which Septimus had devised for the Yellow M. Looking for entertainment, Rowena had followed and watched from the cell door, much to the men’s discomfort – and particularly McFarlane’s. Dear Harry. Always so amusingly jealous where she was concerned. The thing was impossible, of course, and she had told him so; but deep down she knew he would never give up hope, and as such she enjoyed baiting him whenever the opportunity arose._

_Naturally the first thing their Guinea Pig had done on waking and realising what he was wearing was to rip off the jumper with its distinctive yellow “mu” and fling it across the room in a fit of rage. It is currently lying crumpled in a heap in the opposite corner. After that had come pacing, shouting, swearing, retching, moaning, sobbing, screaming – and then, finally, silence._

_As Rowena puts the key in the lock she can sense the nervousness of Braithwaite and his colleague intensify behind her. The incident on the Guinea Pig’s arrival has shaken them both badly. They are timid, academically inclined young men – perfectly presentable in looks, if a little gangling in physique – both former students of Evangely and somewhat awkward around members of the opposite sex. They are idealists, having both been idling their time in mundane doctoral research posts before Evangely had sought them out and offered them the chance to change the world. Between herself and the professor they contrive to keep them in a constant state of awe and terrified fascination – which makes coercing them easier now that they have reached the practical execution of the project. The problem with theoretical science, Rowena reflects, is that theories don’t usually fight back or try and gouge your eyes out with their bare hands. In truth, the gun Rowena is carrying is there to reassure Braithwaite and Hopkins as much as for her own protection._

_The subject shows no reaction to the sound of the key turning in the lock and the door opening, nor does he give any indication of being aware of their presence at all. Rowena doesn’t believe for a moment that he is asleep, though. He is much too still for that._

_‘I’m glad to see you’re well-rested,’ she says coyly, mockingly. ‘We do so want you to settle in and feel at home.’_

_At first there is no response, no movement; but she is not kept waiting long._

_‘Go to hell.’_

_The reply is hoarse, barely a whisper, but full of venom. Rowena smirks. Defiance even now, when he can sink no lower; utterly childish, but she knows well the desperate lengths to which men will go to bolster their failing egos._

_‘How very ungrateful.’ She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. ‘Especially when we’ve only come to make you feel better.’_

_Another moment of stillness, and then he starts to uncurl – slowly, painfully – pushing himself up onto his elbows, twisting around so he can face her whilst sitting slumped against the wall. Rowena has to work hard to keep her expression neutral against another wave of human stink as she assesses their captive. If he had looked ill last night, then the intervening hours seem to have placed him at death’s door. The pale skin is almost chalk white and sheened with sweat, throwing the swathe of black stubble on his chin and the dark hollows around his eyes into sharp relief. The eyes themselves are red-rimmed and bloodshot, his previously white vest stained with further evidence of the night’s torments. His hair has lost any semblance of order and falls forward over his forehead. His breathing is laboured, dry lips parted – clearly exhausted, but the expression he fixes on Rowena and the others is one of sheer loathing._

_‘Let me go,’ he croaks._

_Rowena actually laughs, taking a few steps into the room. ‘Oh, I hardly think so. We have such plans, and we require you to be here for them.’_

_‘You need to let me go.’ He actually snaps at her. ‘Please. For your sake, if not mine!’_

_The “please” does actually catch her attention. Evangely had decreed that conversation with the subject be kept to a minimum, but she is curious. In their brief acquaintance, the man formerly known as Colonel Olrik had struck her as one who would rather die than beg a kindness. And she could usually tell. She decides to indulge him for a moment._

_‘And why would that be?’ she asks lightly._

_The expression of hate does not falter, but he licks his dry lips, gathering himself to speak._

_‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ he says flatly. ‘Your professor thinks he has it all worked out, but he’s wrong. The Wave is under someone else’s control.’_

_Rowena frowns. Whatever she had expected him to say, it wasn’t that._

_‘Whose control?’ she demands. Mortimer, perhaps? They now know he is conducting his own experiments–_

_‘Septimus!’ The subject gives an involuntary moan, closing his eyes as if pained. ‘There’s still a connection. When the fits were managed I could hide, close my mind to him, but last night… He knows where I am, and he’s coming for me, for all of us! I need to stop him. You need to let me go.’_

_Rowena rolls her eyes. What started off as mildly interesting is now sliding into deluded rambling; irrelevant and not in the least entertaining. Time to press on with business._

_‘Septimus is dead, Guinea Pig,’ she says shortly. ‘You saw to that. And now we shall continue his work where he left off.’_

_‘No!’ The answer is strained. ‘He survived in the Wave! He’s back! Fools, can’t you see?’_

_Despite his exhaustion the subject is becoming more agitated, and Rowena purses her lips in disapproval. Could this be a precursor to another fit so soon? She had better not take that risk, especially as Evangely needs him calm again in order to continue to the next stage. But not before she has made him remember his place._

_‘I think you’ve said enough,’ she says glibly, and nods for Hopkins to step forward. ‘Delightful as our little _tête-à-tête_ has been, I assume you want this?’_

_She indicates the tray Hopkins is holding nervously, upon which is a syringe, a phial of morphine, antiseptic cotton wool and a tourniquet. The Guinea Pig’s breath catches, his expression betraying both longing and disgust; the reaction of a true addict. He goes to move, perhaps to try so far as to stand, but Rowena raises the gun again in warning._

_‘Ah-ah!’ she chides playfully. ‘Only good boys deserve treats. And you have been terribly ungrateful, throwing around the nice new jumper we made especially for you.’_

_She nods to the crumpled pile of black wool, a wicked smile on her lips._

_‘Let’s see you properly dressed, first.’_

_Colour rises to the subject’s face in the form of two spots of pale pink staining his cheekbones, at the same time as a new tremor begins to take hold of his body._

_‘To the Devil with you!’ he hisses._

_Rowena laughs again. It truly is pathetic to watch.  
_

_‘Dear me, such bad manners!’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Put the jumper back on, Guinea Pig, and I’ll let you have what you need. Or would you rather spend another night like the last one?’_

_She smirks at his furious expression._

_‘Who knows? Maybe Septimus will join you properly this time?’_

_He is shaking visibly now, sweat beading on his forehead, jaw clenched – sitting there like a petulant child holding its breath to get what it wants. Rowena shrugs her shoulders elegantly. If that’s the way he wants to play it… She waves a dismissive hand at the technicians and turns to leave._

_‘No!’ The moan is rough, almost as if ripped from his throat. ‘Don’t.’_

_Rowena turns back, smiling to herself in satisfaction. She gestures to the jumper with her gun._

_‘Put it on, then,' she says sweetly._

_They both know that she has him now; she's won. Defeated, trembling, the Guinea Pig pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, but his attempt to stand ends in failure. So he must drag himself across the concrete floor to the opposite corner. He pulls the rough, cheap knit over his head, hands shaking, movements stiff and pained, struggling with the sleeves; but finally the task is done, and he slumps back into the corner, breathing hard, utterly spent. Rowena nods her approval._

_‘That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it?’ she coos, and motions Hopkins forward, who with Braithwaite has been rooted to the spot whilst watching the grotesque spectacle unfold. Prompted into action, the young man advances and crouches down three feet away from the subject, the tray rattling nervously as he places it on the floor. As he goes about preparing the dose, the Guinea Pig turns his head towards Rowena, blue eyes burning with the purest hatred. She knows that he is making her a promise; a promise that, when he gets out of here, she is dead._

_But he will not get out of here, and should all go well with the experiments “he” will no longer exist. So Rowena meets his gaze coolly whilst Hopkins rolls back the sleeve of the jumper and fits the tourniquet, until the morphine is flowing through the Guinea Pig's veins and his eyes roll back beneath thick eyelashes and heavy lids. He will likely be out for at least three to four hours – longer, possibly, as in his weakened state and having been denied his previous dose Evangely speculates the drug will likely take him harder than usual. It’ll certainly reduce the chance of another scene similar to the last at Lily Sing’s. It will be long enough for the technicians to clean out and freshen the place up – though the Guinea Pig will be left to see to his personal ablutions when he wakes. He will still be capable of that._

_Although there is something of a pity in this situation, Rowena thinks as she leaves Braithwaite the gun and instructs him not to shoot himself or Hopkins in the foot with it. Having spent time alone with the Guinea Pig, and having stared him down, she has to admit that there was something distilled into that murderous gaze, something that was not empty bravado, in which she recognised the man he was reputed to have been. A pity, in a way, that his mind was crumbling and their plans made it impossible for him to be an ally in their scheme. It could have been fun to know him, otherwise. Very fun indeed._


	5. Wokingham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her Ladyship is in for shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... turned out to be a lot longer and explicit chapter than expected, and not quite what was planned. I was a little hesitant about posting it but, well, here goes.
> 
> The mention of Andre Perrodo is a nod to Blackpenny's "Brighton", dealing with Olrik's initial recuperation after he escapes Bedlam.

It is another damp autumn day, and the noonday sun has unsurprisingly failed to burn off the morning’s mist. Lady Rowena watches impassively from the drawing room window as a black Chevrolet winds its way up the drive towards the house. Should all go well, their meeting with its passenger will mean that, at long last, the Great Work can begin once again.

Her returning to England is a risk, but it is the most convenient halfway point for both parties; and when weighed up with the potential gains, it is a risk well worth taking. The house where they are staying is one Rowena is borrowing for the weekend from an old school chum; a nice, secluded Georgian country pile just outside Wokingham in the Surrey Hills. It is a little closer to London than she’d like, but needs must when the devil drives. The reason she had given was that of a discreet assignation, and Marjorie had only been too delighted to help, agreeing to be sworn to secrecy whilst giggling down the phone, as if it were some silly school-girl pact. Had the fatuous woman even guessed at the real reason for her wanting a venue for a secure _rendez-vous_, she would have been horrified.

Actually, no. Now she thinks about it, Rowena severely doubts Marjorie Soames would have the necessary brain capacity to be horrified, even if she somehow did find out. Like most things that did not involve horses, hunt balls, or the local Women’s Institute committee, it would be entirely beyond her comprehension.

The door opens behind Rowena to admit a man closer to sixty than fifty, powerfully built, with a full head of dark blond hair that has only just started to be touched by grey, still retaining most of his looks but steadily going to seed. He is Abbott S. Peabody III, one of the self-styled “Boston Brahmin”; owner of a vast shipping empire that tenders to both civilian and defence contracts in the United States – a staunch Republican, and Rowena’s current protector. He is a widower of five years, with two adult children long flown the nest; lonely, worth millions, and with the ear of certain key factions within the current US Administration. Precisely the new sort of confederate she and Evangely need.

She had initially thought the solution to solving the Project’s cash flow problems might lie with Andre Perrodo, of the Perrodo oil dynasty. Andre was a young man who knew he was handsome; a keen racing driver, a drunkard, filthy rich and easily led – not to mention the owner of a luxury yacht which could remain for conveniently long periods of time in international waters. Rowena had charmed her way into his affections in the hopes that the fool and his money would be easily parted. Unfortunately, it did not take her long to discover that Andre’s family had thought along the same lines, and in truth his wealth was carefully managed through generous quarterly allowances. A frustrating waste of time and effort. Admittedly, Andre had been fun; a sweet boy at heart, and a pleasant change from her usual fare, but a boy all the same – a playful puppy, and one that soon lost his charm once it became clear he was of no use to her or Evangely.

But her answer had presented itself one evening at one of Andre’s less bacchanalian parties in the form of Abbott, and it had taken her only that one evening to secure his absolute devotion. In hindsight, had she known the “S” in his name stood for “Smedley” she would have thought twice about sleeping with him; but in the grand scheme of things it is only a minor irritation, and she will not have to put up with him forever.

‘He’s here,’ Peabody announces.

‘So I can see.’ Rowena does not turn around, but continues to watch the car as it sweeps along the carriage turning circle and vanishes from sight around the corner to the front of the house.

She hears Peabody’s shoes squeaking on the parquet as he shifts awkwardly. He knows she is still angry with him, and that is as it should be. Earlier, when discussing their strategy for the encounter, he had rather tactlessly suggested that Rowena might consider “sweetening the deal” with a little private attention should their guest seem reluctant to agree to their terms. That Rowena considered this a sensible option and was preparing to suggest it herself was neither here nor there – but that Peabody presumed to ask her to whore herself, and to put it so crassly, was simply unacceptable. He may now be a partner in this enterprise, but that does not allow him to think he has any right to call the shots.

Peabody clears his throat. ‘Look, Rowena, honey… About what I said –’

‘Is everything ready?’ She interrupts his halting, doubtlessly well-prepared speech with deliberate coolness.

‘Er, yes.’ She has put him nicely off kilter. ‘Yes. Manning will show him in here, then serve us tea; there are sandwiches prepared if he hasn’t eaten. Even if he wants to get straight down to business, negotiations could take us well into the afternoon, when we can break a couple of hours before dinner.’

‘Good.’ Rowena turns smartly on her heels, and gives Abbott’s attire the once-over. He cuts a decent enough figure. In terms of personal grooming his wife clearly trained him well, and he is fairly soberly dressed for an American visiting the English countryside; the brown Harris tweed suit and co-ordinating tie are not the most garish she has seen, and he is even wearing the correct type of shoes. She hopes their guest will be similarly sensible and not led by Hollywood misconceptions of cricket whites or plus-fours in a misguided attempt to “fit-in”. She has chosen her own ensemble carefully this morning; a dusky pink wool-silk sleeveless dress that is very easy to unzip and always makes a soft, pleasing thump when it hits the floor. It is a favoured piece in her armoury and has never failed to bring any opponent to his knees. Equally, she has opted for _Bellodgia_ by Caron for her scent; classically floral, but with hints of something darker and more exotic underneath.

Peabody’s expression, however, will not do. He seems uncharacteristically ill at ease, though to some small degree that probably has to do with his wanting to restore himself in her good graces. To a greater degree, it has everything to do with their upcoming meeting.

‘There’s still the problem of Evangely,’ he says. ‘What do we do if they want to meet the professor?’

Irritatingly, Rowena concedes he is right to be worried on that front; she is a little herself. Just over a week ago she dispatched a messenger to Halifax in order to tell the professor that the negotiations with the Americans were progressing favourably; but on her emissary’s arrival at the Rosamund Bligh Memorial Clinic, he had been informed rather tersely by that dragon of a receptionist that ‘Dr Gilbert’ had phoned that very morning to say he had been called away over the weekend to Town on urgent family business. On further questioning, it turned out Mrs Patch had last seen him leaving the clinic on Friday night in the company of “that other American man”, and a discreet search of the professor’s lodgings revealed his suitcase and a small selection of personal belongings also missing. As were his notes.

It is the mention of the “other American” that has Rowena particularly worried. Peabody voiced the suspicion that Evangely might have undercut them and made his own deal, but Rowena had dismissed this. Evangely may be an egotistical chauvinist pig, but he is at heart a realist. Had the professor seriously thought he could go it alone, he would have done so months ago. More to the point, Evangely would not undercut them because the Great Work is not about profit or intellectual property. The professor believed in Septimus’ vision, as did Rowena, as had they all; it was why Harry McFarlane had brought them together in the first place.

An unwelcome tightness comes to Rowena’s throat in that moment. Dear Harry. For all she had teased him, he had been a true friend; perhaps the only real friend she has ever known. The times since she has found herself wishing that he had not chosen to play the gallant fool, that he had run with them instead of putting himself between her and those creatures… But wishing won’t change the past, and it will certainly not bring him back.

Yet from that same sentiment Rowena can state with the utmost certainty that Evangely can be trusted. He believes in the Work; _ergo_ he will not jeopardise its success with betrayal.

Besides, though the professor and his primary notes were missing, the copies he had made and hidden away for safekeeping beneath the floorboards in his room were still there. Had Evangely truly wanted Rowena out of the picture, he would have taken both sets. That they had been left behind indicated that Evangely had been taken against his will, and that the person – or people – responsible wanted to make it look anything but.

The last thing she and Peabody need do, however, is admit this to their new partners.

‘If he asks, we lie,’ Rowena says firmly. She steps over to Peabody and gently smooths down his lapels. ‘For now we tell them that Evangely is secure, whilst we continue our own efforts to trace his movements. If it comes to it and there is no other way, we have his notes. Our new friends will find someone else to carry out the practical work; doubtless they are acquainted with a few like-minded scientists who could rise to the occasion.’

Peabody still looks unconvinced. ‘I don’t like it. First the Guinea Pig vanishes, then Evangely… We’re bluffing on a pretty empty hand here.’

Rowena resists the urge to roll her eyes. She cannot have him thinking like this if they are to carry the day; she needs him to buck his ideas up, and fast. But gently, of course. Always gently.

‘All the more reason to double down.’ Rowena lays her palms flat against Peabody’s broad chest, sliding them slowly upwards to curl around the back of his neck, forcing him to meet her eyes. ‘We will find Evangely, as we will lay hands on our Guinea Pig again. And even if somehow we don’t, it’s not the end. The Great Work will continue. Septimus’ vision will survive, as _we_ will survive.’

It works. The uncertainty vanishes from Peabody’s expression, giving way to his usual smug, self-satisfaction. It really is soul-crushingly easy at times, Rowena reflects, if she were to believe in the concept of souls.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, you’re right. We’re at the dawn of a New Age, and we’ll be there to shape it in our image.’

He goes to wrap his hands around her waist, but Rowena decides that is enough for the moment; it wouldn’t do for him to think he’s totally forgiven just yet. She presses a swift kiss to his lips and steps back out of reach as the sound of the front door closing comes from the hallway.

‘Keep to the plan, and follow my lead,’ she says shortly. Then she moves to the settee, takes a seat and crosses her legs elegantly at the ankles; a picture of refined calm. Peabody has no time to utter further comment as the door from the hallway opens and Manning enters to announce their guest.

‘Mr Francis Taft, of the United States Information Agency.’

To his credit Peabody slips seamlessly into his business persona, turning to greet their visitor without a second’s hesitation; hand outstretched, all smiles and charm.

‘Mr Taft!’ he says, grasping the man’s hand warmly. ‘So glad you could make it down. I trust you found the place easy enough?’

If Mr Taft is at all phased by the ebullient nature of his welcome, he doesn’t show it. Rowena openly takes stock of their guest; a tall, youngish man, athletically built, but with an obvious slouch to his shoulders – the tell-tale sign of a reserved individual who has spent years working hunched over a desk and stooping to be on a level with shorter people. He has a head of short, thick ginger hair and a neatly-trimmed beard, which helps in some degree to offset a sharp, aquiline nose. His eyes are dark blue, and seem a little wary, but that can only be to hers and Peabody’s advantage. Mercifully, he has decided not to experiment with his dress and is wearing a moderately decent mid-grey business suit, matched with a dark green tie. Not the clothes of leisure, but perfectly respectable and forgivable from someone of his culture and class. In conclusion; attractive enough to look at, if a little sober and homespun in his aspect. A fairly innocuous civil servant.

‘Easy enough, Mr Peabody.’ The young man replies in what Rowena knows to be a Seattle accent. ‘Thankfully my chauffeur’s a local, for which I’m grateful in this fog. Charming these little English country roads may be, but God, sir, are they narrow! I’m amazed we got here without a collision or missing a turn.’

‘Speaking of English charm,’ Peabody carries on, moving smoothly from small talk to introductions. ‘May I present Lady Rowena Sparke? Leading light of this enterprise, and associate of Professor Evangely.’

Mr Taft’s attention shifts to her, and Rowena watches in private amusement as his blue eyes widen slightly in surprise, observing the split-second where his gaze drops to take in her figure, and the moment he catches himself doing so and makes a conscious effort to focus back on her face. It is a reaction she is more than used to provoking in men.

Rowena does not get up, but smiles and extends her hand graciously, leaving it for Taft to approach her – which, rather predictably, he is more than eager to.

‘A pleasure, ma’am,’ he says, taking her hand, and clearly means it. He doesn’t go for the tritely gallant option of a kiss, though, but instead clasps her hand in a brief but firm shake. The man instantly goes up a notch in her estimation.

‘Delighted, Mr Taft.’ She indicates the armchair next to her. ‘Do make yourself comfortable. Manning will bring in tea shortly, and I asked cook to prepare something for luncheon. That is unless you have eaten already?’

‘Thank you, I stopped on the way down,’ Taft says, taking his appointed seat. He doesn’t lean back, but perches slightly awkwardly on the edge, resting his dark leather briefcase against the chair leg. ‘We pulled in at Windsor, at one of those pubs down near the river. Even in the fog, it was quite pleasant. Have you ever visited ma’am?’

Rowena gives a thin smile. ‘Once or twice,’ she replies, not adding that those occasions were as a guest of the Royal Household.

Further small talk is thankfully not required, as at that moment Manning returns bearing the tea tray, which he places on the sideboard. After he has served each of them (Rowena would never stoop to such base nonsense as offering to pour and “be mother”, even to entertain a guest.) she dismisses the butler with orders that they are not to be disturbed until he is rung for.

‘Now, Mr Taft,’ Peabody says, when the butler is gone and the doors to the hall are once again firmly shut. ‘We do have a little time for leisure over this weekend, so if you would like to be shown to your room before –’

‘Thank you, Mr Peabody.’ Taft cuts in politely, but firmly. ‘But I’m sorry to say I’m not at liberty to stay beyond this evening.’

Rowena gives a perplexed frown. That wasn’t the arrangement they had made.

‘Oh, that is a pity Mr Taft!’ she says, laying the disappointment on thick. ‘I understood from dear Abbott that we were to have you to ourselves for the entire weekend?’

Taft gives a slightly embarrassed cough.

‘Regrettably not, ma’am. It’s transpired that I’m needed for some embassy business tomorrow, and my absence might provoke unwanted questions as to our, shall we say, less than official enterprise. Which is not a state I imagine neither you nor my superiors would like.’

It was a damnably good reason, if an irksome one. Rowena tries to not let her frustration show as she reflects on how this might change their strategy. They will have to work fast, and efficiently, if they are to get this in the bag, which will leave very little room for finesse.

Peabody takes on a look of mild disapproval and clears his throat. He has obviously come to the same conclusion as Rowena, and is as equally unhappy about it.

‘A disappointment, sir,’ he says levelly, shifting forward in his chair to rest his tea cup on the coffee table. ‘I won’t pretend otherwise, but I daresay we ought to be able to reach a… _satisfactory _agreement, all the same.’

Rowena takes the cue and smiles beatifically at Taft. The young man hastily drops his gaze to the floor.

‘To business, then,’ he says quickly. There is an awkward moment where he tries to simultaneously rest his tea cup on his knee and bend down to retrieve his briefcase, belatedly realises this will not work, then places his cup on the table, after which he can carry on unimpeded.

‘The parties on whose behalf I am authorised to negotiate have reviewed your proposals with great care, and I can definitely say with much interest.’ Taft leans back and opens his briefcase, continuing in a business-like tone. ‘They feel many aspects of the Project are in alignment with their own vision for our nation going forward, with eventual opportunities for global application. They have a particular interest in the re-education methods developed by Dr Septimus.’

Rowena smiles sweetly. ‘Which is where your department comes in I imagine, Mr Taft?’

Taft inclines his head in acknowledgement. ‘That’s correct, ma’am. There are those in our country – how shall I say it? Disruptive elements, hostile elements that seek to undermine our society from within, and in doing so usurp the natural order of things. So-called “social reformers”, self-styled “free thinkers”…’ Taft’s disdain for such individuals is clear. ‘And ordinary, decent folk are only too vulnerable to their false promises of Utopia. The people need clear information, need to know who to look to for real leadership, need to know who truly has their best interests at heart…’

Here Taft pauses and gives a tight smile, a flash of so far unseen steel coming to his eyes.

‘…and we need them to not question it.’

For a moment Rowena basks in that vision; the greatest nation on Earth at their feet, where the lower orders fill their rightful place and function, shepherded by natural superiors in both class and breeding, and content for it to be so. With a country already so dependent on mass electronic media – television, radio, cinema – and with the remit of an organisation such as the Department of Information… The possibilities are staggering, indeed. Also, despite first impressions Rowena is starting to like Taft more; not merely a passionless bureaucrat, it would seem, but another true believer in the Great Work. It would be useful, if possible, to keep him personally involved in the Project.

‘Your superiors’ sense of public duty does them credit, Mr Taft,’ she says silkily.

‘Quite so,’ Peabody interjects, obviously feeling that he has stayed silent too long. He leans back in his chair, interlacing his hands over his developing paunch and smirks. ‘And I am sure every right-thinking American citizen will see that – or will come to. Shall we talk specifics and timetable, then? As a leading interest in the Project, and for expediency’s sake, I am willing to cover the initial financial outlay to take the operation State-side. There are several secure sites I have on my books which we have identified as suitable locations to establish a new research facility – though I expect your employers will have some ideas of their own in that regard, which we will be more than willing to advise on our requirements.’

Mr Taft’s brow creases a little, removing a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

‘I had hoped Professor Evangely might be here to do that today,’ he replies. ‘There are a number of questions my superiors would like put to him on various aspects of the Project. After all, your experiments in Southwark did end… somewhat ignominiously.’

By sheer bad luck (Rowena cannot credit it as design) Taft has already landed on one of the points of contention she and Peabody had hoped to delay for a while. Resisting the urge to curse, and deciding that the best option may be to address this head on, she shifts forward in her seat and brings her knee almost to within touching of Taft’s.

‘We thought it best that Professor Evangely remain undercover for now,’ she says, pre-empting Peabody’s attempt to explain it away. She lowers her voice, widening her eyes with false sincerity to suggest that she is inviting him into their confidence. ‘For security’s sake. We received information that the British services have obtained new leads in their investigation, so until matters are concluded between us to our mutual benefit, it would be best that the professor not run the risk of discovery.’

She then drops her voice further to a playful purr.

‘He has, however, expressed that he is confident we can provide all necessary reassurances in his stead.’

Taft seems a little uncomfortable at this, but that is most likely because he is trying to keep his eyes off Rowena’s legs, where her knee is now ever so gently but firmly pressing against his own.

‘I hope so, ma’am,’ he says, somewhat stiffly.

Peabody glances from Taft to Rowena, then back to Taft again, and furnishes the representative with a beaming smile.

‘_All_ necessary reassurances, Mr Taft,’ he says, and the suggestion of what those reassurances might include is all too clear, judging by the touch of colour that rises to the other man’s cheeks.

Rowena smiles slyly, re-crossing her legs and for once not wholly despairing that on certain issues Peabody possesses all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. They do not have time for subtlety, though this still requires finesse. Enough for now, though; it wouldn’t do to force the issue too much. If there is to be any chance of success Mr Taft must believe himself to be an active agent here, and so the idea must be allowed time to settle and percolate.

The business negotiations progress. They do have a lot to arrange, and it would do to see how much of that can be settled in their favour without having to take things further. Happily, over the next couple of hours’ discussion, the answer proves to be “a great deal”. Rowena and Evangely will have immunity from any foreign or International Law agencies, with new identities and official papers arranged for both; that much is necessary and easily guaranteed. The timetable for relocation as devised by their new allies is reasonable; everything shipped, and a new lab up and running within the next three months, with a particularly generous budget for the provision of equipment and manpower which had been wholly lacking in their own previous efforts. They are a little taken aback when it becomes clear that Taft is somehow aware of the identity of their preferred Guinea Pig; but, as their guest points out, what the British Secret Services know one day the Americans always stand a fair chance of discovering the next. The queries about Colonel Olrik’s location are easily answered, though, by inventing reports from Peabody’s people and with assurances of the colonel’s imminent recapture.

However, as Rowena had feared, their new partners are very keen to have the Project established in one of their own facilities. Whilst this would assure security and allow access to resources with greater ease, Rowena is of the opinion that an official facility carries the inherent risk of other government agencies finding out about the Project, and therefore leave the Great Work open to interference and perversion. A facility under Peabody’s immediate governance, but funded, administered and staffed by their partners, would be the best of both worlds.

Taft does not seem quite so willing to make such a large concession in their favour, obviously well-briefed to put his masters’ interests first. But at the same time he clearly desires that the Project should go ahead, and soon. Perhaps now, Rowena decides, the time has finally come to persuade their guest that his interests might better be served by an alliance with free enterprise.

Sensing a natural pause in discussions, she fixes Taft with a coy expression, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

‘Are you certain you cannot mix a little pleasure with business, Mr Taft?’ she says softly. ‘We have already made quite some headway this afternoon, and I think a little respite is more than deserved.’

Her smile broadens, and she lays her hand lightly on his wrist.

‘Or else, I’m sure there could be great benefit to continuing these negotiations in a more… _informal_ setting? Since we are to be denied your company so disappointingly soon.’

She feels Taft tense as her fingertips make contact with his skin, feels the pulse point jump in response. He raises his eyes to meet hers, and she is gratified to see that there is desire reflected there, even though it is still held very much in check. For all his apparent propriety, it shouldn’t take much more to encourage him to turn desire into action.

‘That does sound delightful, ma’am,’ he says, the barest hint of a tightening in his voice. ‘But I need to be confident in delivering my superiors reassurances to their satisfaction –’

‘But didn’t we say, Mr Taft,’ Rowena cuts in smoothly, sweetly. ‘We are confident of providing all reassurances…’

She interlaces her fingers with his, pleased to note that she meets no resistance. Her smile is teasing, challenging.

‘…and most definitely to your satisfaction.’

Taft clears his throat quietly, seeming to waver for a moment. Then, having apparently made his decision, he drops his gaze; now openly admiring what he sees, and making no to attempt to disguise it.

‘I suppose we might allow ourselves a little informality,’ he says lightly. He strokes his thumb over the back of Rowena’s hand, his fingers finally returning some gentle pressure. ‘After all, I for one hope that this venture could only benefit from a happy relationship between ourselves.’

Rowena gives a delighted laugh, and not purely for show. Success, it would seem, and for once not too easily. Her next move would be to dismiss Peabody on some pretext – but, unfortunately, he gets there first.

‘Perhaps, Rowena, my dear, you could show Mr Taft what would’ve been his room this weekend?’ Peabody gives the two of them a knowing smile. ‘I have a couple of things to discuss with Manning…’

_Tactless,_ Rowena thinks furiously, whilst keeping up her most seductive smile. _Utterly tactless._ The man had an absolute talent for putting a tarnish on everything, though at this stage of the game it could cause only minor embarrassment.

But, unexpectedly, Taft suddenly turns his attention from Rowena to Peabody.

‘Surely you won’t be denying us your company, Mr Peabody?’ he asks, the faintest ring of that quiet steel returning.

Peabody, who was preparing to rise from his seat, pauses and frowns in confusion. ‘I’m sorry?’

Taft regards Peabody steadily, his voice softening a little.

‘I mean to say that I would prefer it were I to receive reassurances from the both of you.’ With a suggestive glance, he lays a hand on Peabody’s knee and squeezes gently. ‘You might say this gentleman does prefer blonds.’

Rowena looks on with inward glee as Peabody’s expression shifts from surprise, to confusion, to horror at a remarkable pace as he realises just what the man is proposing. So, Mr Taft likes the best of both worlds? Now _there’s_ a delightful twist! Yet, astonishingly, Peabody has not immediately jumped up screaming blue murder, nor punched him – which would have been Rowena’s expectation, if previously asked to envisage this scenario. Whether it is out of latent personal tastes, dedication to the Great Work, or genuine bewilderment, this does nevertheless present her with an opportunity to gain some small revenge for earlier, as well as serving to secure the representative’s good will.

Still holding Taft’s hand, Rowena perches daintily on the arm of Abbott’s chair and places her hand on his other knee with a mischievous smile.

‘A very charming proposal.’ She slides her hand lightly up his inner thigh. ‘And so elegantly put. Wouldn’t you say, my dear?’

Peabody’s eyes look as if they might bulge out of their sockets, but Rowena can tell that, once over the initial shock, he will swallow his pride and go along with their guest’s request. Nor, clearly, is he as disinterested as he might like to pretend. Well, well.

Between her and Taft, they manage to lead a still somewhat dazed and silent Peabody across the hall, up the stairs, along the landing and to the guest room that had been prepared earlier that morning. There is, of course, not a single servant in sight, but Rowena knows that Manning will have been loitering somewhere nearby, will have noted the change of venue and will instruct the rest of the staff accordingly. They will most definitely not be disturbed.

The room itself is light and airy, tastefully decorated in yellow and white in the Adam style, though the generously proportioned bed is more modern and not a four-poster. Mercifully. Rowena holds open the door whilst Taft shepherds Peabody through, his hand applying gentle pressure to the small of the magnate’s back. At Taft’s urging, the two men sit on the edge of the bed, Peabody a little stiffly, and tentatively he draws their lips together.

Rowena looks on for a moment, admiring the view and feeling a thrill of genuine excitement as Peabody warms to the kiss; hands beginning to explore the other man’s body, Taft shrugging back his shoulders to remove his own jacket. She looks away to shut to door, and turns the key securely in the lock.

All at once she hears a short, muffled gun crack, a sharp exhalation of breath, and the soft _thump_ of a body falling on the mattress. She spins around on the spot, eyes widening in shock, but the instinctive scream dies in her throat.

Peabody is lying across the bed lifeless; a startled expression on his face, a neat bullet hole trickling bright red blood down his forehead, a darker red halo seeping out into the sheets around his head. Taft is sitting up on the edge of the bed; back and shoulders military-straight, a still-smouldering gun fitted with a suppressor in hand. The barrel is trained steadily on her, and there is a murderous expression in his dark blue eyes.

Only, Rowena realises with increasingly mounting horror, it isn’t Taft. That is to say, it is now dreadfully clear to her that Francis Taft never existed in the first place.

‘I shouldn’t bother screaming, madam.’ The American accent is gone, replaced by a cold, precise English that is all too familiar. ‘There isn’t anyone to hear.’

That voice. That expression. Rowena feels dizzy; her brain reeling with bewilderment, her heart hammering hard in her chest. It is as if she has been staring at one of those novelty illusion puzzles; where you think that you are looking at one picture, only to have another suddenly superimposed on top of it, yet somehow with the elements of the original remaining.

Sitting on the edge of the bed is Colonel Olrik, wearing a ginger wig and false beard (Of course they are false! How had she not seen otherwise?), clothed in a suit that is purposefully loose and cheap in its cut. There is no question that it is anyone else. And yet he had fooled her; fooled her so completely that she had welcomed him, flirted with him, touched him and not suspected a thing. The thought sends her mind reeling again, and she felt she might faint.

‘Manning –’ she chokes out.

‘– has by now been dealt with by my chauffeur,’ the reply comes, cutting her off. ‘Nor will any of the other servants come to your rescue. I had them slipped something to ensure they have a nice long rest with their afternoon tea and biscuits.’

He is not bluffing; she knows that instinctively. From being surrounded by caretakers and bodyguards, she is completely on her own. But something in his manner – the snide superiority, perhaps – knocks some sense back into her, along with some fight. Now is not the time to fall apart. There is no getting out of this by simply throwing open the lock and fleeing out the door; he would shoot her before she turned the key. What she needed was time. Time to think. Time to come up with a plan. Time to act.

She straightens up, composing herself, and meets his gaze defiantly. _Dignity. Style. At all times, dignity._

‘And Evangely?’ she asks acidly. ‘Is he dead?’

With the colonel’s apparent recovery, the events of Halifax suddenly make a dreadful sense. The professor must have been entrapped much as she has been, Olrik having caught wind of the American deal and using that to lure them into the open. Evangely would have had no reason to suspect a thing.

Olrik gives a thin smile.

‘Not quite,’ he says. ‘But not far off. Oh, don’t worry, my dear; I won’t prolong things with you. You’re far too dangerous for that.’

And yet he has not shot her, which means that he wants her alive long enough to realise “the error of her ways”; perhaps even to go far as make her grovel before he kills her. Even now, as with all men, he cannot help but indulge his ego – and in this weakness, Rowena senses her salvation.

‘Am I really so dangerous?’ she asks, letting sarcasm replace some of the fury in her voice.

‘The most dangerous of them all.’ He answers without hesitation. ‘I knew that the moment I set eyes on you in that rotten warehouse.’

It is quite possibly the most backhanded compliment she has ever received, but Rowena recognises it as a compliment all the same. _Interesting._ For him to deliver it, there has to be some sensation of respect, even admiration for her abilities…

The germ of an idea begins to take root. It would be a huge gamble; a desperate last throw of the dice, but then there is nothing else to lose. Can she do it? She had set out for one seduction, after all, so why not another? And the catch would be no less a prize. Even weakened, he had proved formidable…

Perhaps she has been going about this the wrong way from the start? Perhaps the answer they had needed was in front of them all along, but they had been too blind, too hide-bound by Septimus’ assertations to see clearly?

What if Rowena’s answer did lay with the colonel, just not in the way she’d thought?

She watches as Olrik reaches up with his free hand and removes the wig, carefully but efficiently peeling off the beard before placing both hair pieces to one side on the mattress; all the time his aim with the gun not wavering a fraction. He wants her to see him clearly before she dies, but this only plays into Rowena’s own strategy. He has recovered well; remarkably so. The wasted, sickly appearance has been utterly banished, leaving a man perfectly sound in mind and body. The ruthlessness and intelligence that she had glimpsed fleetingly in Southwark and was hidden by Francis Taft’s soft expression is now openly on display, setting off his dark, sharp looks with a deadly grace. The impression is reinforced as he rises from the edge of the bed, the simple movement conveying an unshakable sensation of power and elegance, like that of a great cat. Strength, beauty, ferocity and cunning. Rowena concedes she finds that an increasingly attractive combination.

_This man helped conquer the world._ What might he and she accomplish now that he is well, and once again master of his own faculties? All she has to do is persuade him this is reason enough not to pull the trigger.

Fortunately, persuading men that her wishes are actually theirs is what Rowena does best.

She allows her shoulders to slump a little and lets go a quiet sigh, dropping her eyes, affecting dignified defeat. It is what he would expect from her, and for the moment she will play along.

‘I hope,’ she says calmly, quietly. ‘That as the condemned, I am entitled to one last request?’

Olrik arches an eyebrow, but it seems he might consider it. ‘And what would that be?’

_There._ That is all the invitation she needs. Rowena gives a shallow smile, calculated to be a little wistful, her eyes warm and sympathetic as she lifts her gaze to meet his.

‘A final kiss, perhaps?’ she says softly.

And before the colonel can make any reply, she acts. Not taking her eyes off him, she reaches behind her and swiftly unzips her dress, shrugging her shoulders and lifting her arms in a well-practiced movement that has the material fall away from her body like the sheet drawn back from a work of art. Venus rising from the boudoir.

The soft _thump _of the fabric hitting the floor punctuates a sudden tense silence.

The colonel’s expression is genuinely unreadable. No sign of embarrassment, no attempt to avert his eyes; but neither is he ogling. She stands there daintily, letting him look at her in her _lingerie_, a challenging tilt to her chin that lets him know the next move is his. Whatever it may be.

Still with that carefully neutral expression, the colonel inclines his head in appreciation.

‘My compliments, madam.’

Rowena gives a teasing smile in response. It this regard, at least, it would seem he is a gentleman – and one who will not hesitate to up the stakes. Heart hammering in her chest, driving out the thought of Peabody’s corpse lying there as best she can, she takes a couple of experimental steps towards him.

‘We underestimated you,’ she says bluntly. ‘That was our fatal mistake. But Evangely was so certain; you were the first, the best. Only you would do.’

She rakes and appreciative gaze over his body to emphasize the point, studiously ignoring the gun still trained on her.

‘But I see now that his admiration for Septimus blinded him ignorant of your true value. We should have learnt from the doctor’s mistakes, seen it was folly pursue you when we could only have benefitted from your full range of talents from the start, both in mind and body.’

Olrik says nothing, keeping that inscrutable gaze on her. But he has not told her to stay where she is, or keep back, and she will take that as encouragement. Slowly, boldly, she sashays a few steps closer, closing the distance between them.

‘Bailey, MacFarlane, Evangely, even Peabody – all men without vision, in the end. You however, dear Colonel, are of a decidedly different stamp. You once held the world at your feet. Wouldn’t you care to do so again?’

This time Olrik’s dark eyebrows lift a fraction. ‘You’re proposing an alliance?’ he queries mildly, with what sounds like genuine curiosity. He has not lowered the gun, but Rowena is certain that if he was going to shoot her he would have done so by now. She waves a hand airily.

‘I’m not asking you to believe in my cause,’ she says dismissively. ‘But inviting you to use your talents to help me achieve it, and to reap the benefits. Another guinea pig will be found, the Great Work will continue - only this time you will be the master, not the slave.’

She is within arm’s reach of him now. She drops her voice to a silky tone.

‘A man of your intelligence and resourcefulness, combined with my vision and ambition… we would be a formidable pair, indeed.’

She closes the last of the distance between them. He allows her to step into his arms, press gently against his broad chest, tilt her head up so that her lips are a whisper away from his.

‘And think of all the _fun_ we could have,’ she breathes, sliding one hand down his firm torso, past his navel and hips, further south over the front of his trousers until she feels –

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No answering stiffness, no building heat. No response whatsoever. Rowena snatches her hand away as if burnt all the same, stepping back hurriedly in shock. Impossible! But she could have sworn...!

She raises her gaze back up to find Olrik regarding her with a mocking smile.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, my dear,’ he sneers. ‘I’ve been tempted by far better than _you_.’

There are two gunshots. Rowena feels a searing pain in her chest, and the next thing she knows Olrik is holding her up in his arms, her legs unable to support her. Her chest feels wet and she cannot breathe.

‘But as for your last request?’ he murmurs, as greyness begins to encroach on the edges of her vision. ‘I will happily oblige.’

And he presses his lips to hers in a kiss that, quite literally, takes her breath away…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The United States Information Agency (USIA) was a real organisation in existence from 1953 to 1999. It’s stated mission was "to understand, inform and influence foreign publics in promotion of the national interest, and to broaden the dialogue between Americans and U.S. institutions, and their counterparts abroad". Simply, it was a vast PR machine dedicated to influencing how other nations viewed America. In our particularly media-savvy age, it’s very easy to imagine how such an organisation might be co-opted for nefarious purposes.


	6. Banbury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude. Our Heroes take stock of the wake of destruction, and draw some conclusions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired in part by darkrogue1’s “Resurfacing”, which deals excellently with Mortimer’s coming to terms with the events in Karachi. I felt this was a good point to show the other side of the medal, so to speak.

Philip Mortimer leans heavily against the wall for support, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he wills the world to stop spinning.

_Steady._ _Slow your breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In. Out. Repeat._

He concentrates on breathing, doing his best to block out the images resurfacing in his mind. _In… Out… _His heart is beating fit to burst through his chest, and his legs feel as if they’ve turned to jelly.

‘Are you alright, old man?’

Blake has followed him out of the mortuary. Of course he has. The concern is clear in his voice, which considering Mortimer’s uncharacteristically hasty departure from the room is hardly surprising. The professor straightens up, endeavouring to regain some semblance of control.

‘Yes. Yes, thank you, Francis.’ _Breathe in… Breathe out… _‘I’m sorry, I just… I’ll be alright.’

He feels Blake place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing with a gentle pressure. Mortimer opens his eyes and looks up into Blake’s open, reassuring expression, the captain letting his friend know that he understands. Blake remembers those nights – months, years after Karachi – when Mortimer would wake screaming, still thinking he was trapped on the palace roof or in the cell with his torturers… And now, as then, Francis is here to ground him; to let Philip know that he is not in Karachi, but Oxfordshire, and that the twisted body on the police mortuary slab is not himself, but another unfortunate soul.

Mortimer places his hand over Blake’s in a silent ‘thank you’, giving it an answering pat to assure him that he is master of himself again. Blake’s fingers give a final, almost convulsive contraction, then he releases his friend’s shoulder and stands back, allowing the professor space to fully regain his composure.

‘I’m sorry I had to ask that of you, Philip,’ he says, the statement no less meaningful for its apparent lack of emotion. ‘But as I said, I never met the man. The only relative we’ve found is in Australia, and apart from his former colleagues… Well, that road would’ve led to too many awkward questions.’

Mortimer’s gaze drops to the floor, knowing well what those questions might be – chiefly, how an eminent neurologist, albeit one who had been academically disgraced and struck off, ended up dead and mutilated on a police slab in Oxfordshire. Yes, that would have set more than a few tongues wagging along Harley Street. And further afield.

‘Have you given thought to the official story?’ he asks. He absently fishes in his pocket for his pipe and matches; an automatic response when his nerves feel strained.

Blake answers in the affirmative. ‘We’re saying that after he was struck off Evangely tried to continue his neurological experiments through private funding. He borrowed from the wrong people, escaped to Halifax where he posed as Jeremy Gilbert, but it unfortunately wasn’t enough to shake off his creditors, who then decided to collect with interest.’

_With interest._ The phrase has a chilling ring to it which prompts a slight shiver down Mortimer’s spine, triggering yet more memories of other places, other times.

_The time has come to settle our accounts, Professor..._

_I hope I come back… I’m not done with you yet, you see._

Mortimer cannot help but wonder just how much ‘interest’ he has accumulated since Karachi.

‘It was definitely Olrik?’ he queries, dropping his voice. He already knows the answer, but Mortimer still feels the need to ask.

Blake gives a grim nod. Then, spotting the disapproving glare of the mortuary assistant directed at the professor’s pipe, he takes Mortimer gently by the elbow and steers him back towards the stairs. They’ll have to go above ground, back into the police station proper, if they want to smoke.

‘No doubt about it,’ the captain continues, as they mount the first flight of steps. ‘The graphologist’s report has come back confirming a match between the handwriting samples. Not that we really needed it; I’d recognise that rogue’s scrawl anywhere.’

Mortimer nods, feeling his heart sink a little further. It has been an eventful forty-eight hours, to say the least; although the professor had only really become officially involved that day when Blake had phoned him in the early hours of the morning.

_‘Philip, I’m sending a car to bring you to Banbury. I need you to identify a body.’_

For Francis Blake the headache began the day before yesterday, with an urgent call summoning him to the office just as he was sitting down to breakfast. An anonymous note had arrived by special messenger, addressed to the captain:

_“At Home: Prof Thomas Evangely, a.k.a. Dr Jeremy Gilbert, formerly of London and Halifax. _ _RSVP: Old Barn Farm, Drayton, Oxfordshire.”_

Blake had instantly recognised the handwriting, and at the mention of Halifax his blood had run cold. His men had managed to finally pick up Evangely’s trail in Halifax just over two weeks ago when the man had disappeared again without warning, having last been seen in company that sounded decidedly unsavoury. As such, Blake had not hesitated to drop everything and head with a small team to _rendez-vous_ with the Oxfordshire constabulary.

On arrival, Old Barn Farm had proved to be exactly that; a deserted farmyard, with an old barn in it. And what was left of Professor Evangely was most definitely at home.

That would have been bad enough, Mortimer reflects gloomily, had Rowena’s body not been discovered a mere six hours later – stripped, wrapped in an antique Oriental carpet, and dumped in a roadside ditch in Surrey. What made it worse was that the police had been summoned by a call from one of the big houses in the area; the staff had been drugged and woken to find their temporary employer, a wealthy and influential American, had been shot dead, along with his butler, and his English Society mistress missing. It was for this reason the constabulary had been combing the countryside ditches and stumbled on the carpet.

Francis had of course immediately got onto Surrey Police to keep the incident contained, but to no avail; a local journalist had already caught hold of the sordid details and sold them on to the _Daily Mail_. The story had therefore broken, and both London Society and the American Embassy were now simultaneously clutching their pearls and screaming for blood, which, if things are not handled correctly, might well turn out to be Francis Blake’s blood.

Olrik has dealt them a very pretty hand, indeed.

The captain and the professor emerge onto the ground floor of Banbury Police Station to a cacophony of ringing phones and flurry of typewriters; both the police and MI5 men busily holding the fort against the onslaught from press, public and government. The superintendent in charge, a whip-thin grey-haired man by the name of Foxdale, takes one look at Mortimer and quietly offers them the use of his office. Mortimer feels both terribly embarrassed, but also immensely grateful. When Blake has closed the door between them and the rest of the world, the professor sinks into the well-worn leather chair behind the desk. He takes out his pipe anew, but doesn’t yet light it.

‘And Lady Rowena?’ Mortimer puts his next question hesitantly, dreading the answer. ‘Was she…?’

He has not seen Rowena’s body. If she had suffered a similar fate to Evangely… But Blake is already shaking his head.

‘Not a mark on her,’ he says shortly. ‘Save from the bullets that killed her. Nor was there any sign of… _interference_, before or after death. Two shots at point blank range straight into the heart. It would’ve been a matter of seconds.’

Mortimer slowly lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding until that moment, relieved.

‘That’s a mercy,’ he mutters, taking out his matches, and means it. At least Olrik had not sunk to that. _At least._ As if torturing a man to death were somehow more excusable for the fact! But it’s true; Olrik may be a villain and a rogue, but Mortimer realises, with somewhat appalled objectivity, that he has come to expect a certain code of conduct from his adversary’s misdeeds, and that the colonel’s stepping outside of this would have triggered above all else a feeling of intense disappointment.

Blake has been quietly watching him and, judging by the expression of equal parts pity and frustration on his face, must have guessed Mortimer’s line of thought. _Now do you see, Philip? Now will you accept the man is beyond redemption? _

But Mortimer cannot accept that to be the case; never will accept it. Ever since last Christmas there has been something inside him that simply won’t let him give up on Olrik, and he feels guilty that in this – and this alone – he cannot subscribe to his friend’s worldview. No matter how much the professor wishes he could.

‘A mercy,’ Blake echoes hollowly, but it seems he will leave it at that; a least for now. The captain takes out his own pipe and lights up, and they smoke in companionable silence for a while, letting the chaos of the outside world slide by unchecked. They will have to get back to it soon, but not yet.

‘So what’s the next move?’ Mortimer asks, reviving the conversation after a minute or so.

Blake takes another thoughtful puff on his pipe, giving the question some careful consideration before answering.

‘The first priority will be getting the Americans to calm down,’ he says. ‘Though that might in fact prove easier than first anticipated.’

‘Really?’ Mortimer’s eyebrows rise to meet his fringe. ‘I thought we were on the verge of an international incident which threatened to rock trans-Atlantic relations to the core?’

Blake gives a wry smile.

‘I’ll admit it did look a bit sticky for a moment, but I’ve had some news from a contact of mine in the CIA. Abbott S. Peabody had a lot of friends in the White House, and the associated scandal will certainly need very delicate handling. However, before the Second War it was no secret that Peabody held some very questionable views on the direction America’s relationship with the Axis powers should take – views on which he suddenly became very quiet after Pearl Harbour.’

‘Good God!’

‘Quite. Furthermore, though Peabody may have rehabilitated himself enough in the public eye to be awarded several lucrative defence contracts, my contact has started to receive reports suggesting that the man may be have been beginning to explore alternative methods of pursuing old ideologies.’

‘And you think that’s what he was doing with Rowena?’

‘Without a doubt. Fortunately there has never been any formal connection made between Lady Rowena and Thomas Evangely, so this can be passed off as the latest High Society scandal. We’re working with the FBI on a story involving a botched kidnapping by undisclosed Eastern Block agents whilst they knew Peabody would be spending time with his mistress.’

‘Will that work?’

‘It fits with the public facts. The house owner, Lady Marjorie Soames, was an old school friend of Lady Rowena’s, and is under the impression she leant the place and its staff to her for a weekend’s discreet assignation. Given Lady Rowena’s known proclivities, no one will argue with it this side of the Pond. We may have to expel some Soviet diplomats in the near future for good measure.’

Mortimer is impressed. Blake may not be an engineer or inventor, but his own brand of quick, quiet creativity never fails to astonish his friend.

‘And what do you think really happened?’ he asks.

‘I think Evangely and Lady Rowena were trying to get Septimus’ work revived in the States,’ Blake replies immediately. ‘And that Peabody was their go-between. My contact tells me that Peabody was known to have approached some key individuals within the Information Agency – which they of course deny – but apparently communication tailed off a month ago.’

‘Why do you suppose that was?’

‘Olrik. Judging by the testamonies of the Soames staff, Rowena and Peabody received an American gentleman as a guest whom they were due to entertain for the weekend. We don’t have a description, unfortunately, but the cook remembers his chauffeur quite clearly. We suspect him to be one Frederick “Freddy” Thorne, a getaway driver of some notoriety from New York.’

‘And you think Olrik found out about Rowena’s plan, hijacked the line of communication and turned up in the guise of this American?’ Mortimer poses, joining the dots for himself.

Blake nods. ‘That’s about the size of it. We know Olrik has a vested interest in making sure Septimus’ work is never revived, along with being hell-bent on revenge; and you and I know to what lengths he is willing to go to achieve that. Evangely and Lady Rowena were a danger to him so long as they lived.’

The captain pauses, a dispassionate look crossing his face.

‘And we know that, when it comes to making a point, he has a flair for the dramatic.’

Mortimer feels another shiver run down his spine at that thought. And to think he had been worried, even feeling guilt, over whether Olrik would ever make a full recovery from his various ordeals! If nothing else this whole debacle proves their old adversary is up and running and, unfortunately for everyone else, back on perfect form. What’s more, he has gone to every effort to make sure the captain and the professor are aware of the fact.

Once again Mortimer returns to dwell on the image of Lady Rowena's corpse wrapped in a carpet, and he calls to mind Cleopatra and her fabled seduction of Caesar. Somehow the professor can’t help but feel that Olrik was “making a point” there, if somewhat obliquely. Like the famous queen, Rowena’s success lay in bending powerful men to her will. Perhaps the queen had tried again for seduction, but this time found Caesar unimpressed?

Only that thought leads to the further thought of Lady Rowena and Olrik in bed together, and Mortimer hastily stamps out that unwelcome image as he would the beginnings of a wildfire.

‘God help Soprianski and Lily Sing if he’s out for revenge, then!’ he comments, quickly taking a puff from his pipe in the hopes to move the subject on.

‘Oh, Soprianski’s already been dealt with.’

Mortimer chokes on the smoke, looking round appalled at the casual tone his friend uses to break the news of this fresh death.

‘What? You didn’t tell me!’

Blake, however, gives a thin smile. ‘Not like that, Philip, don’t worry. I had a report in from our friend Superintendent Kendall at Scotland Yard; apparently Soprianski was assaulted whilst walking down Oxford Street yesterday afternoon.’

‘Good heavens!’

‘By all accounts it was very neat. One minute Soprianski was minding his own business, then he hears a voice in the crowd around him say “The colonel sends his regards!” Next minute a fist comes flying out of nowhere, deals him a solid blow squarely to the face, and the good doctor is left seeing stars flat out on the pavement with a broken nose.’

Mortimer lets out a whistle through his teeth. ‘Very neat, indeed! But there must have been witnesses?’

‘Dozens! But could a single one tell you what the assailant looked like? Mid-afternoon, broad daylight, amidst the normal press of shoppers; perfect cover. All Soprianski could tell us was that it was a man’s voice, and he sounded American.’

Mortimer frowns. Satisfying as it is to think of that fool Soprianski indignantly nursing a bloody nose, the professor considers that the doctor will never know just how lucky he is to have got off comparatively lightly. It is a particularly grim thought.

'Olrik is certainly tying up loose ends at a rapid pace, though,' Blake continues, leaning back against the door and folding his arms across his chest. 'A spate of suspicious deaths in Limehouse has been brought to my attention; all small-time crooks, all who worked in some capacity for Lily Sing. It might have been dismissed as straight-forward gang in-fighting, except for one; a Chinese GP by the name of Tuog. He was found at his desk, having been injected with an overdose of morphine. No one even tried to make it look like suicide.'

'No prizes for guessing who was responsible for Olrik's addiction to morphine, then,' the professor remarks bitterly. His stomach gives a further lurch as he wonders just how much longer this grizzly tally might grow. ‘Is there any news on Miss Sing herself?’

Blake shakes his head. ‘None, I’m afraid. We know for certain she had already run for the Continent before the arson attack on the restaurant, and we traced her as far as Luxembourg where she managed to give us the slip, but judging by what we know of her connections there’s a high probability she’s heading for Zürich. MI6 is working with the ICPC to try and bring her in.’

At that moment a dark, closed look passes across the captain’s face.

‘And I only hope for her sake, Philip, that we find her first.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ICPC = International Criminal Police Commission, which in 1956 was officially renamed INTERPOL.
> 
> Lily Sing's suspected flight to Zürich is a reference to "Match" by Blackpenny, which details her flight following Olrik's escape from Bedlam, the events of which I will expand on in the last two chapters.


	7. Invoice #003 (Limehouse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving in to the Third Act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character of Delaney - Olrik's unassuming, but frighteningly efficient and versatile London solicitor - was created by Blackpenny and features in several of their works.

_Lily Sing watches, her eyes narrowed, as Dr Tuog bows and backs away down the corridor, leaving via the courtyard at the rear of the house. His visits are becoming by necessity more frequent, but he is always careful to keep his comings and goings discreet. Lily would accept no less._

_Tuog is a competent physician, if a little timid in heart. Over the years she has engaged him to deal with supplies of proscribed drugs, inconvenient corpses, and many wounds that would be better going unreported to the police. True that he performs his duties more out of fear than loyalty, but he is a trusted pair of hands and the details of his motives are unimportant. This case, however, is beyond his skill to heal; beyond anybody’s, really._

_Lily turns and re-enters the guest room, closing the door silently behind her. Her charge is quieter now, stretched out on the yellow silk daybed which just about contains his long frame, dressed in only shirt and trousers, the latest dose of morphine having already done its work. He is lying perfectly still, the rise and fall of his chest barely perceptible as his breath comes slow and shallow, his closed eyelids quivering gently as he searches his own private vision. Before long even that will cease, and he will sleep. For what little good it will do him._

_Crossing over to the couch, Lily deftly undoes a few more of the buttons beneath the open collar of his shirt and slips her hand inside, feeling the damp heat of his skin as she rests her palm on his chest. An indistinct murmur escapes his lips in response, and his right arm twitches, as if to try and push her away, but gets no further. She ignores him and concentrates on searching for his heartbeat. There. Steady, but slow. Very slow. Tuog is right to be concerned; any increase in dosage from here, and that heart will almost certainly stop beating for good._

_Her gaze returns to his face, and she studies his sleeping features. Once upon a time, not that long ago, thinking of him had only prompted fond memories of admiration and idle desire. Back when she had first set eyes on him, many years ago in Lhasa, he had been what the Americans so crassly term “Quite something.” The day was already destined to be portentous; Colonel Olrik was the first Occidental to be formally presented to the Imperial Court since Basum Damdu had expelled all Western diplomats after assuming power in 1936, and he was certainly the first ever to receive a commission in the Tibetan Army. Olrik had cut a very striking figure, striding into the throne room in his new Eastern uniform, his old Western cavalry sabre at his hip. Bare-headed and straight-backed, he had stood as tall as the elite Imperial Guards in their high black fox-fur caps flanking him, and Lily had sensed the ripples of discontent already radiating from certain individuals at his appearance._

_She had watched with mounting interest as Olrik had approached the Emperor, halted where he had been briefed to before the throne, and bowed as a warrior, not as a servant. At the time the colonel’s Tibetan had been a little stilted and archaic, but none could fault his pronunciation or manners, and in his brief exchange with the Emperor after he had sworn his oath there had been great mention of his being of both Eastern and Western blood, his noble ancestors having numbered amongst the tribal horsemen who had swept in from the east to conquer the Carpathian Basin almost a thousand years ago._

_It had been a masterful piece of theatre, and had set the tone for Olrik’s rapid rise to prominence. Early attempts to secure his downfall were turned back on their perpetrators threefold, earning him a reputation for cunning and ruthlessness that ensured loyalty from his allies and caution from his enemies. Lily had chosen her side easily, sensing a kindred spirit in this charming and formidable outsider, with his driving ambition and dark looks. There had been an undeniable spark between them, and not just professionally, and had her own position been more secure she did not doubt they would have become lovers. Indeed, had the Battle of Hormuz gone differently and Olrik triumphed, she suspected that soon after the colonel might have been pushed into making a bid for the throne itself simply to ensure his survival, as already the Great Council had started to whisper in the Emperor’s ear that the Occidental was becoming too powerful and too popular. In such circumstances, Lily had little doubt which of the two would have emerged victorious._

_But that was many “if”s and many years ago. Now, as Lily studies Olrik’s hawk-like features, hollow and pale from sickness and addiction, all she can feel is disappointment and disgust. With his reappearance on her doorstep on Christmas Day she had briefly envisioned the possibilities a renewed alliance with the colonel might bring – but it soon became clear that whatever Septimus did to him has broken him for good; not only in body, but in mind and soul. For six months he has taken up space, eaten her food, and disturbed the peace of her house, his fits only growing worse as he succumbs to vice; weak and pathetic. No matter what he may promise in his more lucid periods, he will not recover. Now he is merely damaged goods, and Lily wants nothing more than to be shot of him._

_She slips her hand out from under his shirt and carefully does the buttons up again, reflecting dispassionately on the vulnerability of his state. Were the police to raid her place this minute Olrik could not do a thing to save himself; he would be utterly defenceless, and only know about it later when he woke to find himself in a prison cell. Not that this would ever happen, of course; the local vice squad are very firmly in her pocket, and the loyalty of her people means none would dare tip off the security services as to Olrik’s presence here. Not that Lily hasn’t been tempted; but no matter how badly she wants the colonel gone, she wants recompense for the disappointment and trouble he has given far more. Sacrificing her restaurant just to spite him does not fit that bill, and nor would simply killing him._

_Fortunately, she has had an offer that will satisfy her requirements nicely; a more than handsome bounty for the delivery of Colonel Olrik whole and breathing, with a guarantee that he will never be in a position to come after her for revenge. She has finalised the details with Evangely, and after tomorrow night, when Kim has hopefully done his work, she will be rid of her burden._

_Kim is in part a sop to Olrik’s pride; smoke and mirrors to further give the illusion that she is still searching for ways to make him better. Fetching another face from the past – another trusted confederate from the colonel’s glory days – will suggest their old alliances still stand, even though the Empire is long gone. In reality Lily has only engaged him to attempt to extract enough coherent information from Olrik to determine how his neurosis is linked to Septimus’ experiments, and to see if either she or Evangely can profit from this. The colonel is stubborn and sceptical, but he will submit to Kim’s guidance. Framed as an attempt to re-establish his mental balance, he has very little choice but to comply._

_Stepping away from the couch, Lily walks over to the table which Olrik has been using as a desk. His cigarette holder is resting in the ash tray, containing the still-smouldering remains of a Pall Mall, and Lily wrinkles her nose in disgust. He had not even had the presence of mind to extinguish his cigarette before this latest fit struck!_

_Irritated, she casts her gaze over the sheaf of papers. A half-finished letter lays underneath the abandoned fountain pen; he has been writing to his London solicitor again, that wretched Delaney. Lily picks it up to read. The gist of it is fairly straightforward; to reiterate the previous request for money, clothes, a set of false ID papers to get him out of the country and across to the Continent to pursue his recovery there._

_Lily gives a thin smile, amused at the barely-contained frustration evident in the words, folds the missive up along with the page from beneath it, and places them up her sleeve to dispose of in the kitchen stove. This has been the fate of every other letter the colonel has written to Delaney – the ones containing requests for help to get him out of here, at least. Those simply asking for money and clothes, to be left at a drop off point far from Limehouse for one of Lily’s agents to collect, she has permitted to get through, having made a condition of Olrik’s sheltering here that he leave no clue as to his location even to his allies. It was a condition to which he readily enough agreed, at least in the beginning._

_Even so, she is glad Evangely will be collecting his prize soon. Olrik’s mind may be failing, but enough of his wits remain that he is starting to suspect she is not being wholly honest with him. At first it had been easy enough to say that his letters had simply not received a reply or, as she will do with this missive, convince him that the fit struck before he could begin writing, and that he never got as far as putting pen to paper. It is becoming increasingly difficult to make him swallow this lie, though, as perversely the more Olrik’s mind unravels the less he is inclined to distrust his own senses. It is also not beyond possible that he may have found some other way to get word out to his allies, despite all her precautions; the colonel’s intelligence was formidable enough to begin with that, even ailing, she has to remain vigilant. Yesterday Shin reported seeing one of the private investigators Delaney is known to use hanging about Limehouse – several streets from here, but close enough to be of concern. She has never dealt with Delaney herself, but his reputation as a wily fox is well-known enough amongst those whom interest themselves in such things, that Lily was not in the least surprised to discover that he is Olrik’s primary agent in England. As it is, having secured a good price for her sickly bird, she will not allow someone else to snatch him from the coop._

_Laying the pen back in place on the blank paper, Lily leaves the cigarette still smouldering and crosses back to the door. She pauses, her fingers resting on the handle, and directs a last bitter glance over her shoulder at the ghost of the man she once admired. May he be exorcised from her house, and never heard of again!_

_Then she opens the door and steps out into the hallway, instructing the waiting Shin to take up his post beside the couch and not take his eyes off the colonel for a moment; ensure that he keeps breathing, and that he does not leave the room. Jiang will relieve him in two hours’ time. In the meantime, she has some final arrangements to make._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the story of Lily's capture by Olrik, please see "Match" by Blackpenny (https://archiveofourown.org/works/25784098). The next chapter will pick up where they left off.


	8. Zürich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past catches up with Lily Sing in more ways than one, and makes for a very sinister present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N.B. _Le Cri du Moloch_ has now rendered this fic AU, but I'm going ahead and wrapping it up as planned. (And on a personal note, I think the conspirators get off a bit too lightly, don't you? >;D )

A vista of mist-shrouded pine trees and snow-capped mountains greets her eyes. The position of the sun indicates it’s early morning, and the sky is already clearing for what looks like it will be a fine late autumn day.

Lily, however, is quite unappreciative of the scenery, beautiful though it is. She is more concerned that her current circumstances do not tally with those she was in before she passed out; particularly as it seems she is cuffed, hand and foot, to the otherwise undeniably comfortable couch on which she is reclining.

Beforehand, she had been escaping the hotel fire in Zürich, coughing her lungs out due to inhaling the unusually noxious smoke from some fool’s horrid cigar. She had fought her way outside, into the fresh air, but she still could not breathe. She remembers a fireman taking her arm, leading her to a bench, handing her an oxygen mask – only it had made things worse, not better. Just before she lost consciousness the fireman had removed his helmet and respirator…

Lily’s stomach clenches, a knot of icy fear forming in her guts. There is now no question as to what has happened to her, though according to Dulac’s report that Olrik was still in England, it should not have been possible. But there is no mistaking what she saw, nor had she hallucinated. She would never mistake those eyes, that face, that voice. Fury swiftly replaces fear as she silently curses herself for having let her guard down, for having relied on Dulac, for having had anything to do with that incompetent fool Evangely and his mad scheme in the first place!

Fury directed inward and at past actions, however, will not help her now. There is precious little that will help her as it is, but that has often been the case. Lily Sing did not carve out her path in this world by meekly submitting to fate.

Her restraints appear to be the sort of leather cuffs used by hospitals and similar medical institutions, and there is enough give that she can sit up a little. Which is fortunate, because as considerate as it is for her captor to have arranged the furniture so she can see out of the window, a reconnaissance of the room is necessary before she makes any plan of action.

She turns, twisting to look over her right shoulder and so over the back of the couch which is, it transpires, a First Empire _chaise longue_ upholstered in mint green satin damask. The room has a high, airy ceiling, and is large enough and distinct enough in style for her to surmise that she is in some sort of villa; most likely mid-nineteenth century. The furniture is mostly antique, but sparse and without any sign of personal clutter – no photographs, no books nor magazines, no knick-knacks on the mantlepiece. A hired villa, then; one of the many private rentals available to the richer seasonal visitors looking for fresh air and a change of scenery away from the bustle of the resorts.

This conclusion fits with what Lily knows to be, or certainly used to be, one of Olrik’s idiosyncrasies; how he goes through periods where he likes to play at domesticity, holding court in the character of a refined gentleman about town or lord of the manor on retreat. There is little evidence of a court here now, though, and based on the nature of the colonel’s current agenda there is unlikely to be one.

Having observed all she can in one direction, Lily carefully shifts again and twists around so she can look at the other half of the room; the one she supposes must contain the door. There is less give in this direction, but with some judicious manoeuvring she manages it.

And then freezes as she makes eye contact with the old woman who has been silently sitting by said door all this time.

In the few seconds it takes for Lily to register the woman’s presence and curse herself for not realising she had company sooner, she has made a rapid assessment of her potential physical capabilities, temperament, and possible use as an accomplice or hostage in an escape.

This woman is older, yes, but not drastically so; Lily places her age at about fifty. The lines on her face are not yet all that deep and there are still liberal streaks of chestnut coloured hair to been seen amongst the grey. She is straight-backed and slender with a graceful neck; the hands holding the sock she is darning are strong, veined and coarsened from housework. Ten years ago Lily supposes she would’ve possessed what might have been considered an austere beauty.

The woman is wearing a modestly plain charcoal dress with long sleeves and a high collar, a navy-blue cardigan, thick black stockings and sturdy low-heeled shoes. Lily briefly considers that she might be a former agent of Olrik’s, but some instinct has her reject this idea; something about the woman’s demeanour which doesn’t quite fit. Everything about her screams “housekeeper”. Possibly she is a genuine domestic provided with the villa, then?

Which leaves the question as to what must the colonel have told her that has her sitting here, keeping guard over a young woman in restraints instead of ringing the police? The most plausible reason is that Olrik has claimed she is mentally ill and must be restrained for her own protection – after all, the wealthy don’t just come to Switzerland for the skiing. At least it gives Lily a starting point from which to work.

Leaning into her genuine surprise, Lily widens her eyes and concentrates on looking frightened. She is still in the blue day dress, without make-up and with her hair loose from the night before, which will only help her look younger and more pathetic. Westerners are fond of infantilising Asian women. Perhaps she can manipulate this “house mother” into sympathising with her?

‘Please!’ She addresses the woman in French, her voice a frightened whisper. Urgent, but not yet panicked. ‘Please, help me to get away! I don’t know what he’s told you, but he means me harm!’

The woman merely stares back at her, a slight frown creasing her brow. Lily bites down on her frustration. Is the woman stupid? Mute? German-speaking? Or worse, she might be from one of those remote peasant villages where they only communicate in some long-dead Helvetian tongue… Still, Lily presses on.

‘Please, I’m not mad! He’s a criminal, a monster! My father is rich, and he plans to ransom me. Please, help me, and I’ll see you’re rewarded generously. Oh, please help me escape!’

The woman’s features now form into a kindly smile, her grey eyes warming a little.

‘My dear,’ she says gently, and in excellent, refined French. ‘If you think he’d be careless enough to leave you with someone so naïve, you don’t know him half as well as you imagine.’

From the table next to her she lifts up a little silver bell and, before Lily can raise any protest, rings it delicately. No sooner has the woman put it down than four knocks sound at the door – three in quick succession, then the fourth after a beat.

‘Come in!’ she calls clearly.

The door opens and a man pokes his head into the room; tall, brawny, blond, a battered nose and scowling face. Hired muscle.

‘What?’ he demands in a petulant, unmistakably American drawl.

The woman gives him a frosty glare and inclines her head imperiously in Lily’s direction. The thug turns to look. Seeing that their prisoner is awake and sitting upright, understanding dawns across his flat brow.

‘Oh. Right.’ He ducks out of the room again, closing the door behind him with a snap.

Without a word, and without another glance at Lily, the woman calmly returns to her darning.

Having dropped all pretence at helplessness, as this will clearly not help her, Lily sits there regarding the woman narrowly. The brute has gone to fetch Olrik, that much is clear; but as to how long that will take, there can be no guessing. Another of Olrik’s foibles, Lily recalls with distaste, is his hopeless indulgence of his flair for the dramatic. Doubtless he will be preparing to make a suitable entrance, setting his props, costume and poise just so. Possibly even scripting himself a couple of opening lines.

In the meantime, Lily reviews what she has observed. The woman is clearly more than a domestic to speak so well and to give orders to Olrik’s henchman, but something still makes Lily fall short of her being an agent. Family, maybe? A former lover? No. There is no resemblance whatsoever in character or looks to the colonel, and handsome though the woman might once have been, she is not his type, so far as Olrik ever had a type. Whoever or whatever _she_ is, she knows exactly who Olrik is and what he intends to do, and her loyalty is without question. So there is no point in Lily’s wasting her breath in trying to bribe her to help engineer an escape from “the monster”.

What else? The bell and the knock on the door, obviously coded, are a form of password and response to make sure that the people either side know that all is well before opening the door. A simple, but effective security measure, especially if there are different coded knocks for different people, and these are rotated throughout the day. It would take a prisoner considerable time to work out the pattern, if indeed there is one. Time, however, is the one thing Lily senses she doesn’t have.

She has two options. The first is to try and slip free of her restraints, overpower the woman, and then deal with the guard. The latter part would be easy enough; the darning needle would slip cleanly into an artery in that thick neck, which would incapacitate significantly even if it did not outright kill him. Certainly long enough for her to get clean away from the room and hide somewhere in the villa until she can form a plan of escape.

The second option is to wait until Olrik arrives, see what he intends and try to persuade him not to kill her – which is no option at all, and she almost laughs in derision at her having even considered it. No, she cannot wait. If she is to have any chance of survival she must get out of here, and get out fast.

The old bitch is a problem. For all she seems intent on her sewing, Lily is certain she is keeping a close watch on her every move. Fortunately the angle of the _chaise_ is such that her hands are not visible to the woman. Olrik may be cunning as the Devil, but even he cannot think of everything. Particularly as not so long ago he was not capable of thinking at all.

Affecting an air of resignation, Lily lies back down on the couch and stares dejectedly out of the window at the silent snowscape, bringing her hands into her chest with a sigh.

And with slow, efficient, imperceptible movements, begins to work on loosening the cuffs around her wrists.

She manages to work undisturbed for about a quarter of an hour. The cuffs are done up as tight as they can go, but her hands are still smaller than the average white female’s. With careful, consistent pressure, she manages to ease her right hand about halfway down through the cuff to the knucklebones. Another two minutes, Lily estimates, and she will be free.

Her cautious elation is dashed, however, by the sound of a new knock on the door. The same pattern as last time – three knocks in quick succession, followed by a fourth after a beat. However, this time the woman picks the bell up and rings it once, after which come another two knocks. Password, response, acknowledgement. They really aren’t taking any chances.

Careful to keep her hands out of sight, Lily sits up again just in time to see the woman rise from her post and open the door. She stands to one side, allowing Olrik to make his entrance.

But for once, the colonel succeeds in genuinely surprising Lily. Based on his past behaviour, her expectations were that he would sweep in triumphant, sporting his sharpest suit, teeth bared in a devilish smile around his infernal cigarette holder, ready to gloat over her downfall.

But there is none of that at all. Not the barest hint of triumph in his attitude. On the contrary, the colonel seems all too calm, even somewhat subdued.

He is wearing a white, heavy silk robe over his shirt and trousers.

He is carrying a tea tray.

Olrik nods a small thanks to the woman as he passes her, and makes his way sedately over to Lily, carefully setting the tray down on the low coffee table that has been placed about two feet in front of the _chaise_. He kneels down next to the table, and silently starts setting out the tea things. In all this time he does not look at her once.

Lily narrows her eyes – wary, hostile – wondering what new game the colonel is privately playing. The tray holds a copper Tibetan style teapot, two porcelain cups, and a small rectangular case in black leather that seems vaguely medical in its aspect, which in turn is resting on a folded white linen cloth. Is this ritual and his choice of attire to mock her? He clearly wishes to remind her of the many times they took tea together in Lhasa as friends, but to what end?

With no immediate answers forthcoming, she turns her attention to making a study of his physique and assess his level of health. He is looking well. Almost unbelievably so. Had Lily not known any better, she might have been forgiven for thinking that the colonel’s various torments over the past two years had not occurred. There are a few signs, though, for anyone who had known him before; the creases either side of his mouth and on his forehead are a little more pronounced, closer to those of a man in his forties than late thirties, the eyes set a little deeper in their sockets. But he has definitely regained most of his strength; no unhealthy pallor, no emaciation, his movements focussed and controlled, no hint of pain or a nervous tremor. Clearly, he has rid himself of his need for morphine.

‘You seem better, my dear,’ she says, swapping into Tibetan.

‘No thanks to you,’ he replies bluntly, in the same language. Olrik still does not look at her, though, keeping his gaze down on the tea tray as he lifts the pot and begins to pour. Lily is surprised for the second time that day, seeing the thick, milky consistency of the tea and noting the distinctive scent it gives off. He has actually made _po cha_. All this can only be in deference to her, then. Besides going to the trouble to source the ingredients and teaware, _po cha_ takes considerable preparation – not to mention that Lily knows for a fact that he loathes the brew. Even Olrik wouldn’t have gone to such effort simply to slight her.

Lily jerks her head in the direction of the old woman, who has once again taken up her post and her darning.

‘Where did you dig up your hag?’

Olrik gives a small smile, seemingly amused at the description.

‘Takácsné is an old ally,’ he says, carefully filling the second cup. Ally. Not “friend” or “acquaintance”. An interesting choice of word. ‘It could be said we have an understanding.’

Which, of course, tells Lily absolutely nothing. Well, captive audience she might be, she thinks with frustration, but she will not give him anything. If he has made tea, then it is unlikely he is going to kill her now; a foolish move on his part considering all his other precautions but, as the old maxim states, one should never interfere with the enemy when he is making a mistake.

So she sits in silence, waiting as he finishes pouring and puts the pot down. Then finally, _finally_, he looks up at her, his dark blue gaze meeting her own, and Lily receives her third surprise. The primary emotion on display is not one of anger, malice, or even hate; instead she is met with sadness, and disappointment.

This attitude seems so alien, so utterly out of place on Olrik’s features that Lily is shocked to the point of finding it obscene. Severely disturbed, her mind chooses instead to focus, above all things, on the fact that has he not pushed the other cup towards her, nor moved to release one of her hands or place it to her lips so she can drink it. The thoughtlessness, and the delay in an opportunity to get free, irritates her. She raises her bound wrists – though briefly, so as not to draw attention to the progress she has made in getting loose.

‘You’re going to have to move it closer,’ she says sarcastically.

He furnishes her with an arch expression. ‘And have you throw it in my face? No, this is for later. It’ll be offered to you then.’

_Later._ Lily now understands the significance of the white robe and cloth. He is in mourning, and this is the beginning of her funeral.

Rage blossoms in her chest like an all-consuming fire, furious at this fresh betrayal. With renewed health she could have excused him his weakness of the summer months. She had expected, _wanted_ him to return to his old self – ruthless, charming, sharp and merciless as cold steel – even as he turned against her. But no. Now he has sunk even lower, and fallen victim to base sentiment. How _dare_ he disappoint her again!

‘As if you would grieve for me!’ she snaps; bitter, her voice dripping with venom. ‘Don’t pretend for a moment that I mean anything to you, or that you wouldn’t have done the same if our positions were reversed!’

Something shifts in his expression – a change in the set of his jaw, an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes.

‘I wouldn’t have sold you to a madman for use as a guinea pig,’ he says crisply. ‘And don’t try to deny you knew what they were planning.’

Lily sneers. Does he flatter himself to think she would consider it worth her while to lie to him now? ‘And what would you have done in my place?’

‘Cared for you. Scoured the earth for a scientist who might cure you. And even if that didn’t work, I would have at least made sure you were comfortable. Find you somewhere discreet and peaceful where you could live out the rest of your days, if necessary, away from anyone who intended you harm.’

A real, visceral feeling of horror and disgust possesses Lily from head to toe. By all the heavens, he _means_ it! She had thought she’d known him, thought they were two of a kind – outsiders, chancers, free spirits, people of destiny beholden to no one, not even each other. Every partnership or liaison fleeting and nothing more than a power play, alliances won, lost and constantly renegotiated on the strength of their self interest. Nothing and no one taken for granted. But now she finds everything she thought she knew about him, what she had taken to be the foundation of Olrik’s beliefs, has been turned on its head. She feels cheated, betrayed, and finds herself questioning whether the man she admired – nay, idolised – had even existed in the first place?

‘Then you are a bigger fool than I ever thought!’ she spits, loathing dripping from every syllable.

The colonel gives her a tight smile, displeased with her further rejection of him, but darkly amused, nonetheless. He lifts his tea cup in both hands, delicately taking a sip, not breaking eye contact with her as he does so. Lily recalls how he once confessed to her that he could not stand the stuff, describing it as tasting to his Western palate like drinking sump oil that had been boiled with old socks. But in knowing how central _po cha_ and Buddhism were to Tibetan culture, he had spent a month in a lamasery before coming to Lhasa, studying and drinking tea until he was confident he could imbibe without displaying his disgust and so offending anyone. Lily makes a bitter wish that this time it might choke him, but no such luck. Perfectly composed, Olrik sets the tea cup back down again and tops it up.

He sits back on his haunches and fishes in his trouser pocket, but instead of the expected cigarette case he produces a small black octagonal lacquered box with a golden clasp. A box which Lily recognises very well, and which she had last seen on the dressing table in her hotel room in Zürich.

‘I was certain you’d have these with you,’ he says casually. Unhooking the catch he opens the lid and spends a moment admiring the set of earrings that Lily knew to be in there. They are truly magnificent pieces, her most treasured possession; two delicately carved green jade discs set with tiny rubies and diamonds, mounted in gold. ‘I remember when Damdu presented these to you, as a reward for your success in the Paris business. Certain people took to believing you were the Emperor’s new mistress, unable to credit that a woman could win his favour by any other means. Ridiculous, considering Damdu never made a secret of his concubines. How we laughed as they gossiped like old hens!’

Olrik closes the lid with a snap and repockets the box.

‘Be assured I will think of you whenever I look at them. They’ll be a reminder of a lesson very thoroughly learnt.’

Though still buoyed along by her anger, Lily cannot help the cold feeling creeping down her spine. The sight of the earrings in Olrik’s hand, like some robber baron of old flaunting his pillaged treasures, has done more than anything to bring home the immediate peril of her situation. The colonel has said his piece, aired his grievance, gloated; she still knows him well enough to predict that he must be near to concluding his action. Her mind searches for a way out, but one hand partially released against a stronger adversary with back-up is futile. What can she do? What can she say? She will die with dignity, at least, and facing the enemy.

‘You did well with the hotel,’ she says coldly, bitterly. ‘And your spies did well in finding me. Mine believed you to still be in England, hunting Evangely and Rowena.’

Olrik smirks. ‘Their information was out of date. Had they seen the English papers on Monday, they would have been aware that Lady Rowena was murdered in a botched attempt by Red agents to kidnap her wealthy American lover. Quite the international scandal.’

‘And Evangely?’

‘Fell foul of debt collectors and met a sticky end. Tortured, apparently. The police believe he may have been kept alive as much as a week.’

Lily concentrates on keeping her face impassive. Of course. Olrik may have preferred to get others to do the heavy lifting, but the colonel’s skill with interrogation had not been purely in giving orders, as many had supposed. Evangely’s last moments would have been spent begging for death.

‘And me?’ she asks stonily. ‘I would have thought you’d come after me sooner, instead of sweeping up the amateurs first.’

A smile of genuine amusement spreads across Olrik’s face.

‘Amateurs are unpredictable in their moves. I stood a greater chance of losing them,’ he says simply. ‘You ran far and you ran fast, my dear, but I have had you on a long lead all the time. Besides, you deserved my full attention. Better to tie up all other loose ends first.’

‘So what now?’ she asks, and somehow manages to keep her poise and voice calm. ‘Now that I have your full attention? Will my fate be the same as Evangely’s?’

‘Regrettably, no.’ There is genuine disappointment in Olrik's voice. ‘In your case I do not have the luxury of time. Since the news of Lady Rowena’s and the professor’s deaths was reported, I have had several offers from potential clients eager to secure my services, one of which I have accepted. A pity, really. It’s an intriguing enterprise that with proper direction will yield exceptional results, and exactly the sort of project I would like to have brought you in on. Impossible now, of course.’

He glances down and rests his hand on the black leather case that is still sitting on the tea tray.

‘I had hoped that I might repay you in kind,’ he says, his voice dropping to a murmur. ‘A week or so to build up a morphine dependency, then a withdrawal period prior to an overdose. A taste of your own medicine, shall we say, though it would only be a fraction of what I suffered. But though I must regrettably cut my plans short, I feel a simple overdose would be insufficient punishment for your betrayal. Happily, there is a fitting alternative.’

Lily watches as the colonel picks up the case and opens it. Her intuition that it was medical proves correct, as it contains a hypodermic syringe, but there is no accompanying vial of any sort of drugs. This causes her some confusion, until Olrik picks up the syringe and carefully pulls the plunger out, filling it with air.

‘No!’ Her shriek is instinctual, horrified. She understands what he intends, and it is vicious. She kicks out then, all pretension to composure gone as she frantically pulls against the restraints, twisting and writhing, pulling her hand completely free, looking to overturn the _chaise_, to smash its delicate frame against the floor and run, just run!

But an iron-strong grip seizes her from behind and holds her arms in place, pinning her to the couch. The woman! Lily struggles, but the old witch’s hold is solid. Olrik’s hand closes over her ankles, large enough and strong enough to cover both. Again she struggles, but all in vain, as seconds later she feels the sharp stab of the needle piercing her skin just above the ankle bone.

Agony. Pure agony. To prolong her torment he has picked the vein furthest from her heart. The air bubble pushes slowly, inexorably up her leg, and all Lily can do is scream and weep. Through the blur of pain and tears she can see him watching her – his face a cold, expressionless mask, his blue eyes hard and unforgiving. She would meet his gaze, let him see her contempt, her fury, but she cannot, she cannot. Her back arches and she gasps for breath, her heart beating faster in animal fear, which only increases her agony and will quicken her death. She has set little score by religion in her life, but in these last excruciating moments her mind cries out to the Palden Lhamo, protector goddess of Tibet, glorious in her fiery wrath and crowned with skulls. Let him suffer, she prays. Let his life be cursed and death come swiftly to him! Let his black soul be broken and find no peace! Let her own soul return to slay him – in the next life and beyond! Let there be no mercy for him. Not now. Not ever. Not while the stars burn in the heavens and the sun beats down on the earth…!

Her final prayer is a scream of rage. A demand for revenge, carried in the following silence, and offered to the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The earrings are a reference to Blackpenny's ongoing story "Erik", which in turn references Olrik's fan-canon (fanon?) habit of taking small trophies from significant enemies he has defeated.
> 
> I've done my best with the research, but any mistakes made when it comes to Tibetan culture and Buddhist lore are entirely possible.


End file.
